


3

by Marli13



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Murder, Reader-Insert, UnSub Reader, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marli13/pseuds/Marli13
Summary: Is it okay to do wrong things for the right reasons? They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions (feat. unsub reader). This is not a love story. There will be no happy ending.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 86





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story includes dark themes of domestic abuse, murder, main character death, rape, and overall violence. Please consume this media at your own risk (and make sure to take care of yourself afterwards).

They say bad luck comes in threes. Which is really funny, considering three is a holy number. The holy trinity. 333 is a protective set of numbers; if you see three threes together it means that angels are looking out for you and the people you love. But where was God in all of this?

God had to be a man. At least the Christian God, anyways. There’s no way a woman would let you suffer like this. No way that she would let your fellow sisters and women be left to drown in a world so cruel and hateful.

The first time you killed someone, it was in self-defense. You didn’t mean to do it. He had been trying to rob and rape you, gut you like a fucking fish and then leave you to die on your doorstep. But you had different plans.

You had fought him off long enough to be able to wrestle the knife from him, and you stabbed him with it. One, two, three. Then he was dead, blood covering the concrete. He was obviously guilty; the police had known he was violent, had known he was targeting women. And yet they did nothing. They had public records stating where he lived, they knew who his friends were and how to find him. Apparently, finding and apprehending someone who was terrorizing people wasn’t on their to-do list. 

Disgusting.

You felt sick the following days after that. Not because you felt bad, but because you _enjoyed_ the way it felt to stab someone. Killing was wrong… Right? And yet you couldn’t get the feeling out of your head that you had done the world a favor. Getting rid of somebody who deserved to be wiped off the face of the planet. Were you developing a god complex? Maybe.

The power trip was undeniable though. You felt strong, like nobody could touch you. Going to work felt irrelevant now. Why work a boring desk job and make no change in this world when you could set the world right? How many people were out there, hurting others and getting away with it because of incompetent and corrupt police?

You scoffed at yourself. As if dropping your stable job to be a vigilante was an option for you. Had you daydreamed about it more than you’d like to admit? Maybe. But you knew it was wrong, and more importantly, unsustainable. You’d be caught for sure. Unless, of course, you read up on forensics with books from the local library and learned how to cover your tracks. TV shows had _plenty_ of tips on how to get away with murder.

Daydreaming like that was dangerous. You knew it was. But the brave part of you longed for some adventure, something new. That is, until the second (or really third) shoe dropped. 

When it rains, it pours.

-

“Let’s start at the beginning.”

You looked up at the handsome man from across the metal table. Aaron Hotchner. They really sent in the big guns on this one. Getting an audience with the head honcho the second they plopped you down in the interrogation room? Very nice. You thought they’d send in Derek, maybe even Emily, but apparently your deceitful nature over the past few days had made Aaron nervous. You clasped your hands together, the tinkling of your handcuffs being the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

“Which one?” you asked. It was an honest question; there were a lot of beginnings for you.

“Your mother.”

You fought back the urge to wince. You hadn’t expected him to go so far back, but you also knew it really was inevitable. They would have found something eventually. They were the FBI after all.

“What about her?”

You already knew, but you wanted to see how much they had already put together in such a short time. Aaron leafed through the files on the table.

“She died a few years ago. A domestic violence dispute. I’m sure you remember.”

You almost rolled your eyes at him. Did he think you had somehow magically forgotten? You could play it that way, if you wanted to. But no, you decided to just act as innocent as you had been over the last few days. The same little stupid girl they knew and loved. But you weren’t stupid, and you surely wouldn’t admit to anything. Not like you needed to; if they had you here, locked tight in chains, they already had you pinned down. If you had covered your tracks well enough, anything they found would be circumstantial at best.

“Yes, I remember,” you replied coolly.

“She was stabbed by her boyfriend at the time. Robert Macken. Did you ever suspect that he was capable of that kind of violence?”

He pulled out a photo of your mother; her memorial photo. He was trying to get a rise out of you. 

“If I had known, she wouldn’t be dead,” you pointed out. He dug into his files, pulling out a photo of your best friend.

“Your roommate in college. Beth Cahill. Beaten, raped, and killed in the back alley of a bar. Her attackers were apprehended, but charged with only six months of jail time. Does that sound fair to you?”

You resisted the urge grit your teeth in annoyance, keeping your face as placid as possible. You were sure that he knew damn well how you felt about it. You kept your mouth shut. He threw out one last photo. 

“Your sister. Victim of a random carjacking. Stabbed multiple times in the chest.”

You didn’t even bother looking down at the pictures, because you knew them all too well. You tried to keep a level head, speaking as calmly and as nonchalantly as you could. 

“We had to have a closed casket funeral because she was shot in the head like a dog in the middle of a parking lot. I know you’re just trying to get at me, which is fine. I get it. You’ve got nothing better to do. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t diminish the deaths of the people I loved by lying about how they died. It’s disrespectful.”

Aaron leaned forward, his brows furrowed.

“I really don’t think you have the right to tell anyone what is or isn’t respectful.”

He was right on that one.

“Alright then, Aaron. Want to tell me why I’m here?”

“It’s Agent Hotchner. And you know why.”

He stood up, grabbing his files and tucking the chair in behind himself as he walked out. You caught sight of yourself in the mirrored glass of the interrogation room. You took a moment to wipe at the fake tears in your eyes, not even bothering to glance at the photos he left on the table in front of you.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. The Tortoise and the Hare

It truly was a combination of a lot of things that had tipped the scales for you. Aaron had been right, that the deaths of the three people closest to you had been triggers for your rage. It hadn’t helped that between all of them you had gotten a taste of blood, of retribution. And it had been amazing.

You were trying to think about what the final straw was, what made you crack in two. The moment you finally realized what you were destined for. It had to have been right after your sister’s funeral. You went to the police station asking, no, _begging_ them for help. Yet they still did nothing. 

You had nobody else. No more close family or friends, nothing. Just people who said that they cared, but went back to their daily lives like nothing had ever happened. You were in shambles, an absolute mess. But you weren’t one to just feel sorry for yourself. If nobody was going to fix things, then it was up to you. 

You had to bide your time though, planning everything just right. You moved to a division in the company where you could make some extra money, work remotely. Saved up as much as you could, sold as many belongings as possible, clothes and furniture included. You got a nice, pre-owned, inconspicuous SUV, waited out your lease. And then you were free.

You weren’t dumb. You knew how it would look if you just dropped off the grid. So you found a cheap place, the cheapest you could possibly find. You kept your bed and a set of dressers, a few sentimental things here and there. Other than that, you kept the apartment bare. You weren’t actually going to be there for any extended period of time. You just needed an address for your driver’s license and a place to deliver your mail.

You remembered signing the lease, almost backing out at the last moment. You were crazy. Absolute batshit. Were you really about to do this? Would you trade a comfortable life for one full of death and destruction, one that you knew would ultimately end with you dead or in front of a jury of your peers?

Then you thought of the three women who had helped shape you to become the person that you were today, and without a second thought you picked up your pen.

-

Finding someone to kill really isn’t as difficult as one would think it is. Especially in large populous cities like Chicago, Dallas, Seattle. Big cities meant more crime. It doesn’t take a personal ID to go to a local library and access public records and newspapers on their computer bank. You never dared to be so audacious as to walk in without some sort of disguise on; many of these places still had camera surveillance, and you knew that it wouldn’t be too difficult to incriminate you if someone followed your card activity. 

It was almost impossible not to leave some sort of paper trail, and you knew that. Most hotels or even motels accepted cash, but not all of them did. You drew small chunks of cash out of your account at strange times to build up your stash for when you would travel, and you only used your credit card for automatic payments like your bills and your phone. This way nobody could track your ATM or card usage. You knew that this wasn’t sustainable, that you’d have to slip up at some time, but it was the best plan that you could come up with right now.

It was no secret that you traveled a lot, you made it very clear to your coworkers that you would be out of town and sometimes difficult to reach, but you submitted all of your work in a timely manner so your bosses didn’t really care much about what you did. You liked it that way; minimal contact and minimal interaction. You couldn’t bear to go back to that boring life anymore.

You hadn’t exactly messed up your first kill (technically second), but it definitely wasn’t your best work. It was easy to look up public records of criminals, where they lived, where they worked, their families. You chose a low-profile person, a scrawny man who had gone to court for beating a woman within an inch of her life, but was acquitted due to a mistrial. He had a new girlfriend who apparently made claims against him to the police as well. Old habits die hard, supposedly.

You weren’t scared before you killed him. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the immediate panic after. You had planned this over and over again, knew what you were going to do, how to dispose of the body. You had been training at the gym, you could lift the dead weight. But despite the overwhelming dread, you stuck it through, finishing what you had set out to do. And then you drove 14 hours back home, collapsed on your bed, and cried.

Who were you to play god? Was this really who you were? A murderer? No, you had been a murderer the second you stabbed that man years ago. But that was different. You were a murderer by chance, not by choice. 

You decided to lie low at home for a few weeks, see if anything came up. There was a little blurb in the news about the man that you had killed, but otherwise nothing else. After a month, you became a bit more comfortable. If they hadn’t gotten you by now, then perhaps there hadn’t been anything for them to find.

So you did it again. And again. And again.

Somehow you managed to get away with it. Maybe God _was_ a woman. Perhaps she had created you, your life, your circumstances specifically for this moment, this time, this place in history. Or perhaps you were delusional. Either way, you were successful, and that’s all that mattered. 

-

It had been a little over a year before you started getting national attention. The little deaths here and there had started to add up, and now you were making waves. Of course you were proud of your work, proud of all the good deeds you’d done so far. But this kind of attention was not what you needed. National attention meant national law enforcement. 

You had come to the conclusion that there were only two ways out. Death or jail. Maybe both. But if it had been a year and no leads, no suspects? Perhaps you could get away with it. If you stopped killing right now, if you went back to your other life, went back to sitting at a desk instead of traveling, perhaps you’d fall in love, have kids, buy a house, put up a white picket fence and obtain everything that you supposed people your age should want. Normalcy. 

And then you heard that they were bringing in some of the best FBI agents there were. Your curiosity got the best of you. You _had_ to see them. Naturally, you did what any rational person would do in your situation. You killed again. But rather than running, you stuck around town, ghosting along the outskirts of the crime scene in heavy makeup, a hoodie, and a cheap wig with all the other locals. You were just like them, making sure to mirror their curiosity, their intrigue. What kind of monster would come into our town and do this?

Sure enough the black SUVs rolled up, and you waited with bated breath as the so-called best FBI agents stepped out. You sized them up individually by how likely you thought you could beat them one on one in a physical altercation. They were better trained than you, so probably none of them. But a girl could dream.

There was one man who seemed out of place, one that you thought you could probably subdue. He was tall, and he looked skinny but you could just barely glimpse the outline of hidden muscle underneath his button-down shirt. He was definitely pretty, with scruffy brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes behind a set of thick rimmed glasses.

You watched captivatedly as he interacted with everyone else on the team. You realized that though he seemed quite a bit younger than everyone, almost by a decade it seemed, he was seen as an equal. He had to have been your age. Hm. You listened intently over the crowd, trying to catch anything from the agents, any tidbit from their conversation. Nothing but useless bits and pieces here and there. You sighed.

You needed to leave soon, before anybody started taking pictures of the crowd for the news. And then you heard it.

“… and this is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

You tried your best not to whip your head around. You turned to look and sure enough they had been addressing the pretty man. You headed off in the opposite direction from your car, looping around three different blocks before finally getting in and heading to your motel of the week.

Doctor? He looked extremely young to be a doctor. Either he had aged very well, or he was some kind of genius. Sure enough, after a quick google search, the answer was genius. Good lord, he had _how many_ degrees? The pictures online didn’t do him any justice, really.

The best part about it was that you only needed one name. You had his name, which gave you a news article which gave you another agent’s name, and within less than an hour you had assembled your own personal FBI unit, even the absent tech analyst.

They weren’t people to be toyed with, you knew. But you were tempted. You could read about them all day, about their personal accomplishments and accolades, but you wanted to _know_ them, get inside of their heads, learn how they thought, how they worked. Apparently, that’s what they were supposed to do to you. You wondered if they had figured out that it was a woman killing all of these people. Violent crimes like these were usually reserved for men. You supposed you’d see soon.

You didn’t stick around after your next murder to see them. Or the one after that, or the one after that either. You kept going at the leisurely pace you’d adopted months ago. You knew that sometimes, when people felt trapped in a box like this, they would accelerate their killings because they were aggravated, or they knew their time was running out. Not you. You didn’t crave the kill. It wasn’t something you needed to survive. 

You were on a mission. Slow and steady wins the race.

It wasn’t sustainable. You knew it wasn’t. You were bound to fuck up. You had gotten so into a rhythm, so bound by routine that you weren’t paying enough attention. It had only been a month, but you were still thinking of your little FBI agents. What were they doing now? Were they in the last city you visited or back at home, waiting for you? They were just so _fascinating,_ you needed to know more about them. 

You were thinking about the doctor when you slipped up. The man you had been hunting this time was tied to some kind of organized crime. The kind of man who goes to other people’s houses and beats people in front of their families just to get what he wants. What did a man like him have to prove?

What you hadn’t accounted for was that there was going to be someone else. Your target was walking down a street alley at night, minding his own business. Apparently, he was meeting a friend, an associate, whatever, and you didn’t know. You had seen the other person standing almost 20 feet away at the last possible second, after you had already struck your target with a knife. You had two options.

Leave a witness. Although not preferred, you were disguised enough and it was dark outside that you may be able to escape detection. Or

Kill the witness. But what if they were an innocent? Yes, murder was bad, yes you knew you were probably going to go to hell anyways, but at least the score against you wouldn’t be as bad since you only killed people who deserved it.

Leave a witness, it is. You couldn’t dispose of the body like you’d normally do, so you ran. This wasn’t conventional, not the best plan or strategy, but you always had an escape plan for reasons like this. The actual killing phase wasn’t where forensic evidence was likely to be left behind; it was the disposal process. You’d be safe, even if you left right now.

You had felt pretty good about your decision as you ran off until you heard a gunshot, a brick on the wall next to you spattering dust onto the sidewalk. Oh fuck.

You’d never been shot at before. You ran faster, not even sure if the other man was following you. You didn’t hear any more gunshots, so you figured the answer was no. But you looped around three separate blocks, extending your run just in case anyone was following. They weren’t. You hopped in your car, your chest heaving.

That was new.

-

You had thought that the shooting was the end of it. Apparently not. After a few days drive you were back in town, back at home, grocery shopping of all things. If you were going to lay low, now would be the time to do it. Just a normal woman living her normal life.

That is, until you saw him. A pale man with dark hair and even darker eyes, following you down the aisles. Weird, but okay. Maybe he was just shopping like you were, going down the aisles one by one in the same way that you were. Just to be sure, you doubled back, turning your cart around back the way you came, making subtle eye contact with the man. He looked familiar. You smiled lightly.

“Excuse me,” you said apologetically, squeezing past him. You went to the previous aisle you had walked through, keeping an eye out. Sure enough, the man was at the end, looking at something there. Well shit. 

You pretended to look at the canned tomatoes. Ew. You only had a certain amount of time before you had to move from this spot so as not to arouse suspicion. You snuck glances at the man. As far as you could tell, he didn’t seem to be a police officer. You could just barely make out the concealed weapon on his hip, but other than that there was no indication that he was anything other than a regular citizen.

The man from last week. That’s who he looked like. Okay, you had stayed in one place too long. You grabbed a can of diced tomatoes, kept moving, keeping tabs on the man following you. You should have known better. Leaving a witness when your victim was part of an organized crime group? So fucking stupid. 

You had a very important decision to make. Were you going to confront him, corner him, or let him follow you? You knew you could probably take him if you had homefield advantage. You knew this town better than him. But the fact that he had followed you two states over didn’t bode well for you at all. He was motivated, and you had a very strong suspicion that he hadn’t come here alone.

How were they able to track you this far? By following your car? Although you had worn a slight disguise when you had killed their friend, even though it had been dark outside, they knew what your actual face looked like. They were supposedly a notorious group, something you hadn’t really taken as seriously as you should have, and if they had the connections that you thought they did then you weren’t safe anywhere. 

They knew your face, your vehicle, probably your home address. How ironic that right after the FBI started to investigate you, you got killed by some fake mafiosos. This was fine, this was okay. You could figure this out. Obviously killing someone at your actual apartment wasn’t ideal, although claiming a home invasion would be a very good cover. You didn’t exactly live in the best part of town. 

But homefield advantage was surely a good thing. Logistically, depending on the location, they would have one person set off to kill you, and the other waiting in the getaway car. Easy. But killing on your home turf was still not good, especially so close to where you lived. You knew that if you killed, you would slip into the same routine, same method. That made you easily detectable. If you killed too soon and this close to home, it was practically a beacon to your little FBI agents that this was a kill of necessity, and that was too close of a call for you to take.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” you asked a sales associate.

“Yes?”

You rolled your cart a little closer to her, lowering your voice.

“There is a man following me. I know he’s behind me, please don’t look. He has a gun, and I’m really, really scared. Could you call the police, please? I just don’t feel safe.”

The woman nodded grimly.

“Of course, I can.”

“I’ll stay in the store. Just please hurry,” you said in a hushed tone.

“I think you’re looking for aisle 12,” she said, smiling brightly and raising her voice.

“Awesome, thanks!” 

You took your sweet time shopping, purposely not picking anything up, just leaving the same 5 items in your cart and noting that the man was still following you. Camera footage would even be able to prove it, too. You smiled to yourself. Amateur. 

Sure enough, 15 minutes later you caught sight of some police officers out of the corner of your eye. Perfect. One started to apprehend the man while the other came to you, asking if you were okay. You nodded, leading him to the front of the store. You strode calmly over to the female associate, handing her your cart.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you said in a grateful tone of voice. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can finish shopping. There’s only a few things in the basket so it’ll be easy for you to take back.”

She smiled softly.

“Of course. Stay safe out there.”

“Thanks again. It means the world to me.”

The sound of raised voices started to come from the back of the store. The police officer that was with you looked back nervously, and then at you.

“Would you be alright going to your car alone, ma’am?”

“Absolutely. Thank you so much for your help, officer. And thank you for your service.”

You shook his hand and made your way out of the grocery store emptyhanded, hiding the smile that was blooming on your face. That was just too easy.


	3. Contingency Plan

It was only a matter of time. Those men knew where you lived, and the police would only slow them down. It was early in the evening, only 4pm. Perfect.

You got to your apartment, setting everything up for emergencies like this. You had thought of almost everything, had enough time to plan, figure out how to wiggle out of situations like these. Before you had even started killing, you had practiced the drill, over and over and over again just to get it right. And then after, you practiced twice a month. Call it paranoia, but it was paying off. You could get in and out of your place in about 12 minutes flat, give or take.

And then you were on the road. Charlotte was only about a 4 hour drive from where you were. You had purposely refrained from killing here, although you did enough research to have backup victims for this exact reason. A quick getaway, a quick distraction. It would be too early for a kill, but you wouldn’t be the one doing the killing.

What time was it now?

7:30.

Great. You were less than an hour out of your destination. The pizza that you had ordered should arrive at your place soon, where it would sit on your doorstep because you had left a note asking the delivery driver to do so. Because funnily enough, when you order ahead, some restaurants don’t charge your card until they start to make your food at a later time. Your bank card would register a transaction in a city 4 hours away from where you were right now. Even better, you could set up text messages and emails to send at certain times. With your phone and laptop safely squared in your room, there was constant activity showing you were in town. Your television was queued to play whatever show you were watching continually, your bedroom light on. From the outside looking in, it was as if you had been home all night.

It would be dumb to think that the little gangsters hadn’t put a tracker on your car; in fact, your entire plan was hinged off of that hope. You parallel parked on a carefully chosen side street about 30 minutes from downtown. This was the difficult part. You had to time this correctly, almost exactly to the second. You knew it took almost 10 minutes for police officers to show up here. You just had to wait. It was already pretty dark outside, and it only took about 45 minutes of waiting before you saw a car circle the block twice, and then park a few spaces ahead of you. Good. The second the men had parked and started to walk towards your vehicle, you jumped out and used one of your backup disposable cellphones to dial 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Help!” you whispered into the phone, walking quickly down a few blocks. You knew the men were behind you. 

“What’s wrong ma’am? Are you alright?”

“They shot her!” you whispered, adding a scared little sob to your voice. “I think they saw me too, please send help! I’m on Anderson Street, near the park. Please hurry!” 

And then you hung up the phone. You discretely checked behind you. Yep, they were right there, about 30 feet back. Good. 

You turned down another street and there she was, sitting on a bench in front of some apartments and smoking like she always did every single night for hours on end. Amelia. A child abuser, an absolutely sick and twisted woman. You picked up your pace, running straight towards her.

“Ma’am, ma’am please! There’s men behind me, you have to help!” you cried. She looked up at you with a surprised expression, and then glanced behind you to see the men rounding the corner. You grabbed her hand, making her stand with you. She fought you off, but kept glancing almost fearfully towards the ever-approaching men. 

“What are you doing?” she cried.

And then one of the men drew out a gun. 

You ducked behind Amelia, pushing her in front of you like a human shield. You screamed bloody murder, screamed for help as loud as you could, so loud that you could barely hear the gunshots, could barely hear the sound the bullets made when they punctured Amelia’s chest one, two, three times.

Porch lights came on, people started to peek out of their windows, throwing their blinds open to see what was happening. It was a quiet neighborhood after all. The street became almost bathed in light, the men pausing in their tracks as the faint police sirens became louder with each passing second. But you were already running again, already scraping through a hidden alleyway. You ran exactly one block and then forced yourself to walk back in your car. You took the time to pull out your disposable phone and rip it open, tearing out the sim card and breaking it in pieces before methodically taking the entire thing apart and damaging whatever you could. At this point it would be untraceable. You threw your car in drive and got the hell out of dodge.

-

At about halfway home you pulled over to a rest stop that you knew didn’t have any cameras near the bathrooms. You always kept an extra bag of clothes on you, so you took them with you to the bathroom, changing just in case some of Amelia’s blood was on you. You couldn’t see any there, but better safe than sorry. Your hands were shaking with adrenaline, even hours later. That had been extremely close. Almost too close. 

You threw all of your disposable cell phone pieces in the sink, washing them of any fingerprints before throwing them into a little grocery bag, where you had stuffed the clothes you were throwing away. Sigh. You really liked those leggings, too. The shoes also had to go; thank god for cheap Walmart sneakers. You walked to the back of the rest stop, throwing your little bag straight into the dumpster. There was no way it would see the light of day again.

And then you were back in your car, back on your way home. The shaking had stopped mostly by the time you got back to your place after 1am. You picked up the cold pizza off your doorstep. You didn’t want to eat any (you were honestly so nervous that the thought of any food made you feel sick), but you knew throwing away a whole pizza would be suspicious. Plus, you were probably in shock from tonight anyways. It would be enough to give anyone trauma. So you forced down a few slices of pizza before taking a shower and getting to bed. 

Tomorrow you were going to go to the self-service car wash that you had a membership with, use a blacklight and clean out anything you thought might be suspicious. But for now, you needed to sleep.

-

You knew they were based here in town. You had seen the articles online, seen the interview they put on the television about catching the men in Charlotte. Even if the FBI weren’t looking for you specifically, they would be soon. The two men had connections to your last murder; they’d be suspects for sure. And if they were looking for you, then your agents wouldn’t be too far behind.

When you had signed the lease, you had made sure that your apartment was on the first floor and flush against the parking lot, only a small row of bushes separating your window from the parking spaces. It made for an easy exit or even easier eavesdropping.

Sure enough, about three days later, it was in the evening just after dark when you heard them roll up, heard them speaking through your open window about you, about some game plan. It was time. As quickly as you could, you took your laptop and ran to the bathroom, closing the door behind you and throwing on the hot water over the already half-filled tub. With no hesitation, you took your laptop and threw it in the water, letting it soak there. You grabbed your phone and opened one of your playlists, turning on the music and cranking it up at full volume, before setting it down on the bathroom counter.

The low voltage from the laptop wouldn’t kill you, so you undressed and submerged yourself under the hot water as quickly as you could. The water was warm now, as if you had just drawn the bath rather than earlier. You took your already damaged laptop and opened it on the edge of the tub, as if you were in the middle of using it. And then you sat there and waited.

A banging on your front door. You could barely hear it through the noise of your closed bathroom door, but that’s what you had intended. You heard the muffled sound of them kicking in the door, and then seconds later they were throwing open your bathroom door. 

“FBI!”

You yelped as if you were surprised, and dunked your laptop into your bath water again. And then you hopped out of the tub, as if in fear that it would electrocute you. But you knew better than that. You grabbed at the shower curtain to cover your naked body as a man pointed his gun at you. Derek Morgan. He sure was a pretty one.

“What are you doing?!” you screeched, shaking your wet hair out of your face. As if you didn’t already know. When in doubt, play stupid. Derek lowered his gun, and you could see part of the team behind him all looking at you, some with confusion and others with what looked to be embarrassment or shame. Good. Barging in on a vulnerable, naked woman is certainly something to be ashamed about, which is what you were hoping to play to your advantage.

“We’re the FBI, ma’am.”

“Yeah, I think I got the FBI part!” you scoffed.

“We have reason to believe that you’re in danger from some very bad people. We’d like for you to come with us so that we’re able to keep you save, if that’s alright with you. We need to do this very quickly, though,” Derek replied.

“Okay, well can I at least put some clothes on?”

“Uh, absolutely. I’m really sorry about this,” he apologized. “We’ll be right outside whenever you’re ready.”

He closed the bathroom door behind him, and you sighed. It seemed that for now you had pulled it off. You took your time drying off, waiting until the last possible second to fish your laptop out of the bath water. It should be thoroughly fried by now; they wouldn’t be able to gather much information, if any, from it. You wiped it off as best as you could and wrapped yourself in a towel, exiting the bathroom and throwing your laptop down onto your bed with an exasperated sigh.

“You owe me a new laptop,” you called out to the agents standing in your living room. You quickly slammed your bedroom door so that they wouldn’t have time to see your face, see the grin that you couldn’t quite hide as you started to get dressed. After you had gotten dressed, you poked your head out of your room.

“Do I like… need a bag or something?”

“To be on the safe side, yes. But it’s very important that you come with us for now,” Derek said. You realized very quickly that you needed them to introduce themselves to you; you didn’t want to slip up on accident.

“I don’t even know your names. Why should I come with you? For all I know, that’s a fake vest and gun. What does the FBI want with me? I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m Agent Derek Morgan, but you can call me Derek. This is my badge. We need to escort you to somewhere a little safer as quickly as possible. Can you trust me enough to do this?”

You looked up at him, at the faces of Emily and Aaron and Spencer behind him, and then back again.

“I think so.”

“Okay. Do you need some time to pack a bag?”

You nodded.

“Alright. Grab it and let’s go.”

-

This was too fucking good. They thought you were a victim! Just some random target from some random men. The men were trained, you knew they wouldn’t talk to the cops, but you were slightly worried that too much digging into your past by the tech analyst would bring to light what you had done.

The team had introduced themselves to you, taken you straight to Quantico of all places. You suppressed your wonderment, passing off your excitedness as nervousness by shifting around in the backseat, bouncing your leg up and down and wringing your hands together. What was even better was that the doctor was right there next to you the entire way.

You could just barely catch the smell of peppermint that rolled off of him in the confined space. He was awkward, that you could tell, but he still tried to reach out to you. He explained how the two men had been arrested for another crime that was tied to a much larger one, how they had found your photo in one of their pockets, had run it through facial recognition and were afraid that you were a target considering their line of work. 

They thought that you were the next kill. You dug your fingernails into your palms to stop from laughing. You didn’t really fit the MO, although considering your past it may look like you had done something shady. You knew you should be scared, being so close to the people who were going to catch you, but being able to meet your team and see all of them in person, get to know them? It was so exciting you could barely keep a straight face.

“Doctor?” you asked timidly. He had been looking out the window; his head whipped around, turning to face you.

“Am I really going to be safe here? I don’t understand what’s going on. How am I going to do my job? What do I tell my boss?”

“You’ll be safe,” he replied earnestly. “As for your job, we can reach out to them, let them know you’re okay but that you’ll need to take a small leave of absence.”

“What, like give them a doctor’s note?” you chuckled. It was dark in the car, but you could see a faint hint of pink on his cheeks. Oh, he liked being called that. How adorable.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” he admitted. You fake frowned.

“Then what kind of doctor are you?”

Derek laughed from the front seat, and you glanced over at him before turning back to the doctor. Spencer. His name was Spencer. You had gotten so used to referring to him as ‘the doctor’ in your head that you were going to have to break yourself out of the habit. Actually… seeing the way he reacted to it, you may just keep calling him that.

“I have PhDs in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering,” he replied.

“And… how does that help you do this job?”

He smirked lightly, leaning in closer to you.

“It kind of doesn’t,” he stage whispered. You laughed, and he smiled as he pulled away from you. His smile was absolutely divine. You loved how his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. 

Oh. 

What was that?

Bad. That’s what it was.

You had been obsessed with your little team, fixated on them from the start. Somewhere along the line, you may have become… infatuated with the doctor. Tricking a certified genius? What an absolutely hilarious thing. And now you were being handed this opportunity to know him, befriend him.

But at the end of the day, your team was your enemy. You couldn’t get caught up in this, caught up in your precious little games. You knew how this was going to end. And you doubted the doctor would want to be friends with you after that.


	4. Tirez sur le Pianiste

You hated the lighting in Quantico. Too bright, too uncomfortable. As if there was nowhere to hide. Spencer gave you the grand tour, pointing out the bathrooms, different people’s offices and desks, and the kitchen. Your tour ended at a little conference room with a round table. 

“We’ll probably keep you here for awhile,” Spencer said as the two of you entered the room. 

“Is that where I’m going to sleep?” you asked, gesturing to the blue couch on the far side of the room. 

“Yes,” he said, and you looked up at him to see that he looked to be slightly embarrassed. “It’s not much, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay” you reassured him. “I’d rather be safe here than comfortable at home.”

He gave you a small smile.

“So… can you explain more about what’s going on? I don’t understand what the FBI has to do with someone like me. All I do is work and travel a little. I mind my own business. I just don’t get it.”

“Well…” 

He paused.

“It might be best for you to sit down.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

You moved to the couch, setting your bag down on the floor nearby and waiting for him to sit as well. But he continued to stand awkwardly, towering above you. You shouldn’t have done it, but you wanted him closer to you.

“You can sit next to me, you know,” you said, patting the cushion next to you. “I don’t bite.”

Unless he asked you to.

… 

Now was not the time.

You watched as he nodded, moving to sit on the couch but leaving a cushion between the both of you so that you could turn and look at each other. Damn. You wondered how warm his skin would feel like compared to your own. 

“I can’t explain too much of it for confidentiality reasons,” he started, clasping his hands in his lap while facing you. “The most I can really say is that there are some very dangerous people, and we have reason to believe that you were not safe. We want to take the utmost precaution, just to make sure.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

“Do you know how long I’m going to be here?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry about that, I know it can be distressing to have your whole life disturbed like this.”

If only he knew.

“No, I understand,” you replied. “You’re just doing your job the best you can.”

He smiled lightly at you. Perhaps he was surprised that you were taking it so well. You glanced at the clock on the wall. It was getting late. The doctor saw you looking, and you couldn’t help but feel almost proud at how intent he was on paying attention to you.

“Can I get you anything? Help with anything?”

“No, not yet,” you replied in what you hoped was a reluctant tone of voice. Sure enough, you saw the faintest furrow in his brow. He was watching your every move.

“No, really. If you’d like any water, any food, I can definitely get it for you.”

Perfect.

“No, nothing like that. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Is there a way we can maybe… put on tv or a movie in here? If it’s not too much? I didn’t bring any books or anything to really do. Am I allowed to use my phone?”

He chuckled lightly at your last question.

“Yes, you can use your phone. I ask that you not mention this to anybody else, just to be on the safe side. As for a movie, I think I can get our tech analyst to pull something up for you. Any requests?”

Tech analyst. That must be Penelope. That was the only person you hadn’t been introduced to yet.

“No, no requests. Show me what you like to watch. I need some new movie recommendations anyways.”

“Are you sure about that?” he looked at you hesitantly.

“Absolutely. I want to see what you’re into.”

Hopefully you.

No. You couldn’t think like that.

“Well… alright. Stay here while I go get things set up. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“It’s fine!” you called after him as he made his way out to the bullpen. You watched as he zigzagged his way between desks and things. 

When he was out of sight, you relaxed back into the couch. This was going to be extremely difficult. He was watching every twitch of your muscles, every fleeting emotion behind your eyes. You couldn’t let him see that there was anything else under the surface that he would need to worry about. You spent the few minutes that he was gone devising what your next plan of action would be. Worry about tonight first, and take every step as it came. You could do this.

He returned not too long after he had left, turning the television across from the both of you on and starting the movie. Was it really going to be black and white? And then you realized that it wasn’t even in English.

“French?” you asked quietly, trying not to interrupt the music from the movie. 

“Yeah.”

“Are there going to be subtitles?”

“I’m not sure. I guess we’ll see.”

“What’s the title? I know that word means ‘pianist.’”

“It’s a French classic. It’s called _Shoot the Piano Player._ ”

“Ah.”

Before the characters had even popped up, you turned to him. 

“I can’t really see the screen well, can we turn the lights off?”

“Absolutely.” 

He crossed in front of you to turn the lights off, making his way back to the couch. You felt a little more comfortable there in the dark, but you were even more acutely aware of how close he was to you on this small couch.

Turns out, the movie did _not_ have subtitles, so Spencer translated it for you line by line. You stayed silent, enjoying the tambre of his voice, the way he slipped into his lower registers as he spoke it out for you. Not too long in, you were starting to feel cold from staying still, and not too long after that you were starting to shiver lightly. But the blanket was behind Spencer, and you didn’t want to interrupt him.

So you sat there suffering, curling in on yourself and trying to keep the cold at bay. Apparently, you weren’t doing a very good job because Spencer paused in speaking, reaching over to stop the movie. He leaned forward so he could drag the blanket out from behind himself and moved a little closer to you so he could cover you with it. You instinctively scooted over to meet him halfway, not wanting to be an inconvenience for him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, keeping your eyes down, trying to situate yourself as he draped it over your lap. It was already warm from his body heat, and you enjoyed the faint scent of peppermint that wafted over to your side of the couch.

“It’s no problem at all.”

His voice was a lot louder than you expected, and you looked up to see that he was close to you, a lot closer than you had anticipated. You stared into his eyes for a moment, entranced by the gentleness of his gaze.

“Do you want some of the blanket?” you asked meekly, caught off guard, trying to change the subject, trying to stop your mind from wandering too far into places where it shouldn’t be going.

“I’ll take just a little bit, if that’s alright?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He took a little bit into his lap while you completely covered yourself from chin to toes, tucking your feet up onto the couch to keep yourself warm. You were so thankful that he had said yes because it gave you an excuse to be closer to him. The two of you weren’t touching, both of you too stiff to relax. You admired that he was respectful of you and your space. It was very chivalrous of him. You wouldn’t admit it, but you were secretly happy that he was so tuned in to you that he had noticed you were even cold in the first place. He started the movie and resumed speaking it out for you, and slowly but surely the both of you relaxed. 

Without warning, you felt your shoulder and upper arm meet his. He was so warm, warmer than you had expected. Strong, too. You could feel it through his shirt. Though he gave no true physical reaction, you noticed how he stuttered very slightly at your touch. There was something so… gentle about him. You felt strangely safe, despite the fact that this was the most dangerous place for you to be. 

Maybe it was the darkness of the room, or the excitement of the day, or the way Spencer’s voice resonated throughout the room, but you found yourself drifting off, falling asleep before you had even realized you were tired.

Spencer’s POV

Spencer faltered in his recitation of the film, partially from his mouth becoming dry from all the talking he was doing, and partially because you had lain your head on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he interjected, trying to compose himself. “Nobody usually lets me talk this much.”

He was expecting a reply from you, perhaps a chuckle or something, but you stayed silent. He peered down, realizing quickly from your even breathing that you had fallen asleep. Oh. He couldn’t quite see your face from this angle, but he didn’t have to think too hard to imagine how serene you must look. 

Despite how innocent the whole thing was, this felt very wrong. You were not necessarily a victim, but it was frowned upon to become involved with people from cases. Despite the fact that you weren’t in danger yet, it seemed like you had already somehow become… Spencer didn’t want to say ‘attached’ because it felt like that was too intense of a word, but something along those lines. 

Nightingale Syndrome was a very real thing, where sometimes a rescuer or the person being rescued becomes infatuated with the other, sometimes requited but most of the time not. This wasn’t even close to that, he amended. 

Not yet, at least.

No, he couldn’t allow himself to think like that.

He had thought you were pretty in the photos that the Valassino brothers had on them, but you were even more beautiful up close. He felt guilty that he had seen you naked earlier in the evening because it was something he knew he wouldn’t be able to forget, but you were undeniably gorgeous. He shook himself out of that thought. It was disrespectful for him to think of you like that. He didn’t even really know you.

There were a few things he _did_ know, though. And not just the facts that Garcia had given the team. He knew that you were a bit awkward, a bit nervous when it came to getting physically close to other people. He could see it in the way you constantly positioned yourself away from him, from anyone that got within a certain proximity to you. You had been caught off guard when he had sat next to you on the couch, but he felt a certain amount of pride that you had relaxed against him, enough to fall asleep even. He knew he should chalk it up to exhaustion, but there was still something to be said about that.

You didn’t have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or any sort of other partner. Or friends, even. Family? You would have mentioned them by now, they would have been showcased in your apartment, in photos around your place. You would have mentioned that you needed to call or text them, update them on your situation.

It was strange, actually. You hadn’t spoken to anyone on the phone since the team had picked you up earlier in the evening. Were you… alone? Did you have someone who was out there, someone who watched out for you, cared for you? Or did you just go about life, minding yourself with no contact from anybody else?

What a lonely existence, if that were true.

He would have felt pity, but there was something that was bothering him. The best way he could explain it might be some kind of extreme compartmentalization of emotions. Around others, around the team, you seemed wary and nervous, but still friendly. There was a kindness in you, a genuine sort of earnestness and understanding that surrounded you. 

You had taken everything in stride. No panic, no bombardment of questions. You were trusting. Spencer wondered idly if he would ever find someone like that, a significant other that would trust him. They would understand what kind of job he did and know that though it wasn’t ideal, it was something he was passionate about. Maybe they would be something like you. But not you, of course, because that was inappropriate. 

There was something else, though. Spencer had caught you in the moments where nobody else was looking. Perhaps that meant he was paying _too much_ attention to you, but maybe it was warranted. When you were alone, when nobody was looking, you had this almost… cold demeanor about you. There was this hardness behind your eyes, a defensiveness in your body language, as if you were waiting. Waiting for what? An attack, it looked like. Or maybe some kind of disappointment. 

Had somebody hurt you? Were you more afraid than you let on? He didn’t want to believe that your kindness was just an act, because it wasn’t. Your body language couldn’t lie about that. Those in-between moments are what bothered him. It was almost like a light switch. The second someone walked in the room, the moment somebody’s eyes were on you, you were warm, active, happy. The other times when you perceived yourself to be alone, not so much. What were you thinking, how were you feeling? Did you feel safe? Maybe he would ask you that tomorrow. You didn’t seem to express that you felt you were in any danger to begin with, so he hadn’t thought to ask.

He probably wouldn’t be spending tomorrow with you, though. The team was handing you off between them, partially to see if you knew anything about the Valassinos, and partially just to make sure you stayed safe. Maybe you would provide information to Emily that you wouldn’t say to Spencer. 

He would let you sleep for now, though. The movie was reaching its conclusion, so he reached over to the remote to turn it off. With the lights of the bullpen shining through the blinds of the conference room, he looked down at you again. You couldn’t be comfortable, curled up like that against him. Your neck would surely hurt in the morning.

Selfishly, Spencer wanted to stay like this. When was the last time he had been this close to somebody? But he felt like this wasn’t right. It was too intimate for two strangers who had just met hours before. As gently as possible, he scooted out from underneath you, trying to guide you to lie down fully onto the couch. He didn’t want to wake you up.

You stirred anyways, a low grumble making its way past your lips. Perhaps you weren’t awake. He stood as slowly as possible, trying to untangle himself from the blanket when he heard you speak.

“Don’t go,” you mumbled.

People talked in their sleep all the time. This was normal. You didn’t actually want him there next to you. He shouldn’t have been here anyways. He should have been sitting in the armchair across the room, or at his desk in the bullpen, keeping an eye on the conference room door to give you privacy. Not warming himself up under a blanket with you. Spencer stood up fully, starting to walk over to the armchair when he heard you speak again.

“Please.”

Startled, he looked over to see you staring up at him with bleary, half-open eyes.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right over here.”

“Come back.”

Oh.

Spencer felt something stir in his chest. The way you had said it was so… endearing. It was a small plea, he could hear it in your voice. Maybe you really were scared. Maybe you needed the comfort. Against his better judgement, he turned back around to sit back onto the couch. He shouldn’t be doing this. He felt like he was somehow taking advantage of you in your vulnerable state. But the way you had spoken to him, so gentle and sweet with just a tinge of sadness, made his resolve crumble. 

He sat at the edge of the couch so that he wouldn’t touch you, your hair sprawled out on the cushion barely brushing against him. To his dismay, you moved closer to him so that the top of your head was flush against the side of his thigh. Barely touching, but still there all the same. Spencer resisted the urge to reach out and brush your hair away from your face, run his fingers across your temple, your cheekbone. It was an instinct, the caring part of him wanting to comfort someone who sounded so hurt.

Instead, he clasped his hands in his lap, leaning his head backwards against the couch cushion. What was wrong with him?


	5. Liar

You were awoken by the feeling of being cold, as if someone had taken your blanket away from you. Except you still had your blanket; it was the top of your head and face that felt cold. You frowned, hearing movement in the room, and opened your eyes to see the doctor standing before you, rubbing at his eyes before putting his glasses on and brushing his fingers through his unruly hair. The windows behind the couch caught the beautiful amber tones in his hair, illuminated how strong his body really was. He was so pretty.

And then he turned around, presumably to make sure that you were still sleeping. You saw surprise flit across his face when he realized your eyes were open. He cleared his throat.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice low and crackly from sleep. What a beautiful sound. You hadn’t fully woken up yet, your mind still trying to process everything, so you nodded instead, giving him a small “hello” under your breath. You realized you had fallen asleep on him, and that what woke you up was him removing himself from the couch. 

You would have been embarrassed, but he wouldn’t have stayed with you if he didn’t want to. It was clear by the look in his eyes that he was struggling with something, whether it was what to say or what to do. Finally, you broke eye contact with him, sitting up on the couch while pulling the blanket closer around your body. 

“Sorry for falling asleep,” you said. “It wasn’t a boring movie, I promise.”

He smiled softly at you.

“It’s alright, I understand. I’m sure you were tired.”

“Yeah…”

The room devolved into awkward silence, the both of you unsure what to say.

“Um, I’m going to get changed. Would you like to come with me?”

You knew what he meant. He was asking if you wanted to change your clothes as well, not that he wanted you in the bathroom with him. But the way he had phrased it was just strange enough that you’d be able to tease him. You looked up at him confusedly, secretly enjoying the way he stammered when he tried to correct himself.

“I mean, I’m going to change my clothes in the restroom, I was wondering if you wanted to do the same?”

“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely,” you replied, hiding your smile. He truly was adorable. You grabbed your bag, and the both of you headed to the bathrooms after he stopped at his desk for his own clothes. You took a deep breath, enjoying the solitude at least for the moment. Every second you were around him or anyone else, you had to be on. You had to turn on your charm, your demure persona, a sweet girl with a soft smile and a shy demeanor. It was fucking exhausting. 

The two of you walked in silence as you followed him to the restrooms, and then you saw them out of the corner of your eye. The Valassinos. You pretended you didn’t even see them at first, and then realized that you couldn’t ignore them completely. It was normal for citizens like you to be curious, to wonder what criminals looked like, wonder what they did. So you glanced over at them, keeping your face blank but letting your eyes linger for a moment before they were out of your eyeline. You couldn’t give away that you recognized them. They were staring straight at you, their wrists almost straining against their cuffs as Hotch and Morgan led them through the bullpen to somewhere else. Once you were down the hall and away from everyone else, you decided to ask.

“Spencer?” you asked quietly.

“Yes?” 

“Why were those men looking at us?”

He knew why, but he didn’t know that you did. 

“I’m not sure,” he murmured thoughtfully. You saved the sound of his voice in your head for future notice. You wanted to remember what it sounded like when he lied.

-

Spencer’s POV

It hadn’t been staged, but Spencer was interested to see what would happen if you were put in front of the men who were attempting to hurt you. Not that he thought it would be funny, but he was hoping that either their reaction or yours would bring something to the surface. Except it didn’t at all. 

He saw how you had glanced over at them, curiosity on your face, and then you shook yourself out of it as if you had remembered that it was impolite to stare at strangers. The brothers made no moves towards you as well, though Spencer could see they had recognized you, saw how they tensed at your very presence. What could a girl like you have done to deserve that kind of reaction?

He made a mental note to follow up with Penelope on that today. It just didn’t make any sense. You had asked timidly why the brothers were staring and Spencer acted as if he didn’t know. He didn’t want to alarm you, didn’t want to disturb the peacefulness of the morning. 

He didn’t want this small moment of intimacy to end.

He realized this as the two of you split up and he went into one of the stalls to change into fresh clothes. You had this soothing air about you, as if anyone could tell you anything and you wouldn’t bat an eye, you wouldn’t judge, you would simply understand. It was very similar to Garcia’s air of trustworthiness, although you were more withdrawn, more subdued in your reactions than she was. 

It was rare to find someone like that. 

Spencer shook himself out of his reverie and finished getting dressed, brushing his teeth and fixing his hair in the mirror. Usually he wouldn’t have even bothered with his hair, but for some reason he was feeling more self-conscious than usual.

All too quickly he was walking you back to the conference room and leaving as Emily arrived. He hoped you would be comfortable enough to open up to her.

Most of his day was spent in the interrogation room with Rossi, trying to break one of the brothers while JJ and Hotch worked on the other one. No luck. No matter what they threw at him, he remained silent and still, maintaining eye contact but refusing to say a word. After awhile, Spencer and Rossi stepped outside to form some sort of game plan with Derek. This wasn’t working. Spencer knew that men like the Valassinos were more likely to be misogynists, seeing as their organization excluded women. Perhaps bringing Emily in would change something. 

So Spencer made his way to the conference room once again to trade with her. He found the both of you on the couch, Emily playing what he was sure to be online poker on her phone while you were curled up with a book.

Wait a minute.

That was _his_ book.

You looked up at him, and smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry, Emily said it was okay. I can give it back if you’d like.”

You were holding one of his larger books, tales and poems by Poe. Interesting that someone like you would be interested in something so… dark.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he reassured you.

“That’s my fault,” Emily admitted. “What’s up, Reid?”

“Can I talk to you outside?”

Emily left you there on the couch, and Spencer pulled her outside of the conference room, explaining the situation to her in a hushed tone. She nodded.

“Yeah, I can do that. Will you stay with her?”

“Of course.”

Emily left without another word, leaving Spencer to walk back into the conference room where you sat, immersed in his book. It was a comfortable silence, one that Spencer enjoyed. He had initially been nervous to see you with his book in your hands, but you handled it gingerly. You turned pages slowly with great care, sometimes running your fingers along the smooth yellowed pages. 

Spencer received text updates from the team on the interrogations periodically, but it was nothing substantial. And then, early into the evening, Spencer got a phone call.

“It’s her,” Hotch’s voice said urgently through the phone. Spencer’s stomach dropped as he resisted the urge to stiffen, tried not to look over at you.

_What?_

“Is she with you right now?” Hotch asked.

“Yes.”

“We’re on our way. About five minutes. Keep her there.”

“Alright. Mhm. Okay. Bye.”

Spencer hung up the phone, placing it into his pocket as nonchalantly as possible. You didn’t need to be spooked. But really? You? 

No. Absolutely not. It couldn’t be. 

“What was that?”

Your voice was so clear, so casual, as if you weren’t worried at all. Good. The less you suspected, the better. Spencer was having a difficult time wrapping his head around the whole thing. Had you really done those horrible things?

“Nothing,” he replied, trying to keep his voice level. 

What was worse was that he hadn’t even seen it coming. Not you, with your soft smiles, your kind eyes and gentle hands. Spencer felt almost sick. How had he not seen it? He had touched you, slept next to you. The thoughts of your victims swam before his eyes, some of the mutilation, the precision, devoid of any mercy.

How revolting. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you looked… angry.”

You closed the book in your hands with a flourish, and Spencer got chills thinking about what you had been reading. Perhaps you were just as unhinged as the unreliable narrators Edgar liked to use. Spencer realized he needed to reel himself in. He hadn’t even noticed that one of his hands was clenched into a fist on the arm of the couch. He forced himself to relax the muscles, relax his whole body so as not to give you any indication of his stress.

“No, I’m not angry at all,” he lied. He was _furious._ How could you have gotten away with it? You had been here sitting amongst everyone, laughing and smiling. Spencer had fallen asleep next to you, for god’s sake. How did he not see it?

You laughed. Spencer looked up at you in surprise. It wasn’t a chuckle, or even a nervous laugh; it was almost loud, boisterous. As if you were entertained. 

“What?” he commanded. There was a shift in the air when he made eye contact with you. Because in that moment, he knew that you had figured him out. For some reason, you thought it was _funny._ And that made him even angrier.

“You’re so cute when you lie like that,” you mused, the ghost of a smirk gracing your pretty lips. Spencer almost lost control right then and there, but forced himself to calm down and shut his emotions off. He couldn’t handle this right now.

“I’m not a liar.”

“But you admit you’re cute?”

You thought he was cute? Spencer was almost flattered, which made his disgust that much more potent. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I do.”

He decided not to dignify that with a response.

“I like your glasses,” you said, angling yourself even closer to him. “They’re very… sophisticated.”

You reached out to touch him, but Spencer reacted before he even thought about his next move. His hand snapped up, encircling your wrist entirely and stopping you from getting any closer to him. You looked down at his hand and then glanced back up at his face. He was looking you in the eyes now, and there was a fire there, one that he had never seen until now. His grip on you was firm. Any harder and he just might bruise you.

“Oh,” you said softly. Spencer could see a grin playing at your lips, knew that it was in his best interest to let you go, but the feeling of his warm skin on yours, the feeling of physically restraining you, made his mind and heart start to race.

He could feel how wound up you were by how his fingers dug into the pulse on your wrist. But he was just as wound up as you. You were teasing him. You held eye contact with him, raising your eyebrows in a question. What was he going to do about it?

“Doctor?”

His stomach flipped. God, the way your sweet voice said it had him going in a million different directions. He forced himself to answer calmly and evenly.

“Yes?”

Despite his best efforts, there was still a hint of anger behind his words.

“Are you mad at me?” 

“No.”

You leaned in a bit more closely to him, lowering your voice so that he would have to lean in to hear you.

“Liar.”

He paused, thinking things through. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he squeezed your wrist just a bit harder, just enough for it to start to hurt, before he released you, pushing your hand towards yourself. He gave you one last defiant look before turning back to his book. But he was still watching you, paying attention to every move you made beside him because he was afraid you would bolt. You put your elbow on the arm of the couch, propping your chin on your hand so you could watch him read. 

“Do you need something?” he asked, irritation seeping through his tone. He looked over at you, and he could see you were resisting the urge to smile at the frustration on his face. He was taken aback by the way your beautiful lips were pursed, your hair shining bright in the evening light from the windows. It drove him absolutely crazy, and he hated every second of it.

“No,” you replied casually. “I just like to watch.”

It was a double entendre, and despite his best efforts, Spencer couldn’t help but imagine what that would look like. Suddenly, your gaze flicked over to the windows that overlooked the bullpen. Hotch must be coming. And then the strangest thing happened.

Spencer saw your face soften, watched as you rearranged your fiery eyes and smirk into curious eyes, a small smile gracing your lips. What-?

And then Hotch burst through the door, striding over to you quickly.

“Stand up, please.”

“Wh- why?”

You sounded scared. The look of shock on your face was so genuine that Spencer almost thought he had imagined these last few minutes with you. But the warmth of your skin against his still lingered in the palm of his hand, and he knew that it had been real.

“You’re under arrest for the murders of multiple citizens across the United States, including those of Amelia Clarke and Anthony Valassino.”

“Wait, what-”

Hotch was already reaching forward, reading your Miranda Rights as he cuffed your wrists together.

“I don’t-” your voice choked, as if you were holding back tears. “I don’t understand.”

You looked over at Spencer with wide eyes, as if you were begging for his help. He was aghast. How could you pull off that look so easily? Your voice, your body language, everything was so sincere. How in the hell did you do it?

Before he could think of anything else to say, Hotch was dragging you up by your cuffs, pushing you out the door before you could say another word.


	6. Message Sent

Derek was the next one to visit you after Aaron, his expression unreadable. This was going to be the difficult part, you told yourself. You couldn’t give anything away. Every second you spent in this room would be monitored, whether someone else was in there with you or not. You had already acted standoffish towards Hotch earlier; it wouldn’t do you well to go on the defensive too early, but you couldn’t act indifferent either. You had played out these scenarios in your head before you went to sleep at night. You were ready for whatever your little team was going to throw at you.

The first thing Derek did was collect the photos of your loved ones that Aaron had placed in front of you and put them into the file he had set on the table. You watched him silently. No use in pleading your case to someone who was convinced you were guilty.

Technically you were, but they couldn’t prove it yet.

You waited in silence even longer as Derek shuffled some papers around. He was stalling. He was either trying to make you nervous, or trying to provoke you into speaking first. You refused to take the bait, deciding to just stare him down until he looked over at you to speak.

“Was AJ Martin the first person you ever killed? Or was there somebody before that?”

That was quick. You closed your eyes, letting a small, theatric sigh escape your lips before meeting Derek’s gaze again.

“It was an accident,” you replied quietly. That was true. He was the one who attacked you; he was also the only person you had murdered where you had turned yourself in straight after. “He attacked me. It was self-defense.”

“Self-defense? This looks like overkill to me.”

He pulled out pictures of AJ’s body lying on the street, as well as some of the autopsy photos. You made yourself look away. You were curious to see how far your technique with a knife had come, but you knew that a normal person would balk away from gore like this.

“I don’t-”

“Look at it!”

The sound of his raised voice startled you, and you jumped in your seat slightly. Dumb. You needed to play dumb.

“I can’t!” you exclaimed, your gaze unwavering from his face. You threw in a little lip tremble for good measure. The more emotional they thought you were, the better. They would anticipate you tripping up, when you were truly the one in control.

“I can’t,” you added again in a whisper.

Derek leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

“You can, and you will.”

“You can’t make me do anything,” you replied, looking up at him in defiance.

“I can make you sit here. How about that?”

He grabbed his files and left, leaving a solitary photo of AJ Martin on the table in front of you. You waited until he was gone to flip it over; as curious as you were about it, you weren’t going to give in to the temptation of looking and give yourself away.

-

Spencer’s POV

The evidence that Garcia had found was circumstantial at best. Based on phone and credit card data, you had been in the general area of most of the murders, but not all of them. His mind was still reeling from your behavior a few hours ago. He stuck on how drastically your entire personality had changed in a matter of seconds. The closest thing he could think of would perhaps be Dissociative Identity Disorder, but usually that required some kind of trigger, usually some kind of warning.

You seemed to produce enough genuine emotion that made him believe you weren’t a psychopath, but sociopathy was not off the table. He watched you as you sat alone in the interrogation room. You had looked down at the pictures Hotch had set before you after he had left the room, a longing on your face as you wiped away a few tears. At one point you had reached down, tracing your finger down the side of one of the photos as if you were caressing the person through the paper. That was real.

The rest of the time you had sat there fidgeting with what looked to be anxiety, but it was too infrequent, too measured to be real. Gotcha. You weren’t nervous at all. In the moments in between, you were cold as stone, almost unfeeling. It was jarring to say the least. And the way you had quipped at Morgan? It was almost smug the way you said it. You weren’t angry, you were bragging that you had outwit him. 

Derek was the one who had come out on top, though; the team was going to spend the next few hours tearing through your apartment to try to find something of worth. Garcia had already pulled up all of your assets; you had a small storage locker not too far away from your place. The team split up, Spencer, Rossi, and JJ going to the storage locker while Hotch, Derek, and Emily went to your apartment. There had to be something.

Sure enough, there was. Spencer flicked on the lights to the storage locker, surprised to find that it was very neatly clean and organized, big plastic bins grouped into different parts of the room. There were no labels on anything, but as the group split up it became apparent which was which. 

“This one seems to be for her friend,” Rossi observed, rifling slowly through the bins in his area. 

“Yeah, I think this one is her sister,” JJ said, holding up a framed diploma. Which means…

Spencer opened the bin in front of him to find a photo of you and your mother staring back at him. The room was silent as everybody went through their respective boxes of your belongings. It was one thing to profile you based on your actions. But it was another thing to do it based on the belongings of other people. There weren’t any trophies here, no evidence to be found; just the ghosts of old memories, hidden in plastic containers in the dark. 

Everything had been packed with care, and Spencer felt guilty, as if he were disrespecting someone’s resting place. In a way, this was a memorial to some of the people you had loved the most. He had to remind himself that you were shameless in killing others; he shouldn’t feel sorry for you at all. But the thought of losing his own mother, losing his team, his best friends…

What would he do? From that standpoint, your actions seemed almost rational. If he had the motive and the means and nothing to lose, then why not?

“I think I found something,” JJ said, showing Spencer and Rossi the cellphone she had dug out from one of her bins. It was dead, but as soon as they got into the car, they plugged it in to charge.

It looked like someone had just dropped it one day and never picked it up, conversations and photos frozen in time. The first thing that popped up were the dozens of texts, missed calls, and voicemails, a majority of them from you. The last voicemail was from over a year ago. Rossi turned the phone on speaker from the driver’s seat and pressed the first message.

“I’m sorry,” your voice rang out. “I know I shouldn’t call anymore, I know you won’t answer. It’s just…” 

You sniffled. 

Oh. You were crying.

“Sometimes,” your voice wavered, “sometimes when your phone rings, I hope that you might pick it up. I know I should stop calling. But I miss you.”

Silence. 

“I love you.”

Next message.

“Um.” The unmistakable sound of your voice thick with sadness filled the car. You sniffled a few times, small sobs interchanging with quick breaths as if you were trying to get ahold of yourself. 

“Happy Birthday. I-”

You devolved into prolonged period of tears, and the absolute despair in your voice almost made Spencer tear up. After almost a minute of listening to you sob, Rossi stopped the recording, skipping down to a few below it.

“Hey,” you started, your voice a bit shaky. “It’s Gramps’ birthday today. Remember when we used to mattress surf down the stairs at his house? That was fun.”

Spencer thought he detected a bit of yearning in the sigh that followed.

“I miss you guys a lot. I love you. Tell everyone I said hi. I’ll talk to you later.”

Next message. You were crying again.

“I miss your voice,” you said. Spencer could practically see your lip trembling as he heard you speak. “Sometimes I listen to the videos you sent, and-”

JJ reached over from the passenger seat and stopped the messages. Spencer glanced at her from the backseat, realizing too late that they shouldn’t have done this in front of her. She had tears in her eyes, and Spencer quickly averted his gaze. JJ had lost a sister; surely hearing someone else grieve the same loss had to hurt.

Next were the text messages between you and your sister. It was almost… endearing. The enthusiasm and optimism that you radiated was such a stark contrast to your soft and quiet persona that it took Spencer awhile to wrap his head around the fact that it was you who she had been talking to. Cute reaction images, emojis, abundant exclamation points. Is that who you really were?

Videos and photos were last. There weren’t a lot with you in them, but the few that were there were captivating. It was almost night and day to what you were now. Your smile was bright, your eyes crinkling at the corners. The sound of your laugh had Spencer’s chest hurting. It was nothing like the small chuckles you gave or the dark amusement that you had thrown at him earlier in the day; it was full of life and happiness. 

You were beautiful. 

You still were beautiful now, but not like this.

The car was silent as everybody tried to process this new information. Is this what the world had driven you to? This cold and empty shell of what you used to be?

On their way back, Emily called.

“Find anything?” she asked.

“A lot, actually,” Rossi replied. “We found the sister’s phone. We’ll give it to Garcia to go through. What about you?”

“Not much,” Emily replied. “It’s almost as clean as a hospital in here. We did find one thing, though….”

-  
Your POV

The next morning, Jennifer sat down in front of you with what looked like a new file in her hand.

“So,” she started, “we did a search of your apartment. You never told us you were married.”

“I’m not,” you replied shortly. “But I’m sure you already checked public records.”

You hadn’t slept well the night before. The cells they had in Quantico were uncomfortable. The air conditioning was too cold, and they never turned the fluorescents off. You had to decide between being slightly warm or throwing part of the blanket over your head so you could get some kind of darkness. 

“Then whose ring is this? We found it in the dresser. It’s beautiful.”

She pulled out the familiar black velvet box and set it squarely in front of you.

“It was my sister’s.”

The lie slipped off of your tongue so smoothly that you almost thought it was true.

“Really? Because I saw some pictures on her phone, and that’s not her ring.”

You froze. They went through your storage? You shouldn’t be so surprised, of course they did. But the thought that they had stood there, defiled the very things that you cared about most… You weren’t sure if you wanted to yell or to cry. You bit your tongue instead, trying to reel yourself in. You couldn’t show any sort of weakness.

Jennifer drew a photo out of her file and laid it in front of you.

“That’s you and your fiancé, no?” she asked.

You hadn’t expected them to dig that deep. But it was the FBI, of course they would do something like that. You spared a look at the cheesy generic engagement photos you had taken so long ago, at the gaudy ring he had purchased that you knew was sitting in the box in front of you. 

“Ex-fiancé. I hated that haircut on him,” you commented nonchalantly. You couldn’t let them know how rattled you were.

“Why didn’t you and Stephen get married?”

You shrugged.

“Ask him.”

“We did.”

You looked back up at her cold face. She wasn’t trying to play nice anymore. You could respect that.

“And?”

“Funny, he actually acted as if he didn’t know who you were at first. And then when we brought up the photos, he suddenly remembered. Which is strange, considering the two of you almost got married.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda weird. It was a long time ago though, I don’t blame him.”

“It was… eight years ago, right? Fresh out of college? You got yourself a nice man, a fancy ring, and a pretty dress. Why didn’t you go through with it?”

“How’s his wife?” you interjected.

“I think the better question is why he looked so scared the moment I mentioned your name.”

You shrugged noncommittally. It took everything you had not to look away from her. You knew why. Jennifer started leafing through her files again, looking for something.

“It looks like not too long after the engagement, Stephen ended up in the hospital. He was beaten up pretty badly. What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. We weren’t together anymore.”

Jennifer’s brow furrowed; she was frustrated at the fact that you refused to play into her game. She amped it up a little bit.

“Why did it end so abruptly? We all have different bets going. See, I think you didn’t like him. You liked his money. Maybe he was annoying, maybe a little weak. Maybe he did something you didn’t like. So you decided to rough him up a little bit, keep him in line.”

“I’m not shallow enough to marry for money.”

“So why do you care about his wife? How do you even know about her if you and Stephen aren’t friends?”

“I just like to check in on her every once in awhile.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

You sighed exasperatedly.

“It’s really none of your business.”

“Your entire life in my business.”

Jennifer took the moment to stare at you from across the table before she finally spoke, her voice softening.

“She looked scared.”

You did your best to keep your facial expression placid, as if you weren’t hanging on to every word she was saying.

“Of me, or of him?”

“Why would she be afraid of him?” she asked slowly.

You sighed lightly, leaning forward to put your face in your hands. This was on a need-to-know basis. You knew this was the right thing to do, but you hated every word that came out of your mouth.

“The first time he hit me, I genuinely thought he didn’t mean to do it.”

The room was silent as Jennifer mulled over what you had told her.

“He abused you.”

There was a sort of resigned tone in her voice, almost sad. It made you regret your admission almost immediately.

“Don’t pity me,” you spit, lifting your head up to look at her. “I got out. Some people aren’t as lucky.”

You fought back the urge to think of your mother, of what she had been through. If you thought about it right now, you might just cry.

“And you’re worried about his wife going through the same thing.”

“I’m worried about her safety, yes. And I would hope…” you paused, considering your next words very carefully, “that Stephen would have learned his lesson the first time around.”

“And what lesson did he learn?” Jennifer asked, leaning forward in her seat. 

“Not to be a fucking dick,” you replied. Jennifer stood up, tucking in her chair behind herself before replying briefly. 

“I’ll go see if he got the message.”


	7. Eyes

You were left alone for a long while after that, the only thing occupying the room being your old engagement ring. Eventually you got so bored that you picked up the little velvet box, opening it slowly to see the large diamond glittering back at you. You had the urge to see if it still fit your finger, but you knew for a fact that it wouldn’t.

What would your life had been like if you had actually married Stephen? The thought of the special makeup you had to buy just to cover the bruising on your skin made you close the box with a snap, placing it as far away from you on the table as you could possibly get it. Whatever life it would have been, it couldn’t be much better than this one.

You wondered idly what other things your team had found to use against you. Currently, it seemed that they were grasping at straws. They were pushing too far into your personal life and background, which meant that they had nothing to tie you to your present crimes. They would have questioned you about it if they had any sort of solid proof. That thought put you at ease.

You had half a mind to lay your head down on your arms and sleep, but you figured it would send the wrong message. You were bored, of course, but you couldn’t act apathetic. Normal people wouldn’t be apathetic about this situation at all. Truth be told, you were a little rattled. As much as you pretended not to care, the memories of your past threatened to come to the forefront of your mind, which is something that you had battled for quite some time. You rarely left yourself alone with your thoughts; it was a dangerous game to play.

In the end, though, it didn’t matter how this game played out. You were either going to jail, or you weren’t. And if you didn’t die by the hands of the law, the Valassino brothers and their little organization would most likely take care of it for you.

Your future was out of your own hands.

-

Spencer’s POV

Spencer sat quietly in Penelope’s office, watching you from the cameras set up from Penny’s monitors as she sifted through your sister’s phone. Nobody had come close to breaking you by any means, but JJ had made a little leeway with Stephen. She had visited him again and informed the team that he refused to speak to her about you anymore. 

What had you done to him to make him so afraid to even mention your name?

You, who sat quietly in the interrogation room, running your fingers across the velvet box that sat in front of you. Spencer watched intently as you opened it, and then closed it just as quickly. He watched you push it away from yourself, drawing your hands in your lap as if they had somehow been contaminated from touching the box in the first place. You carried so much trauma within yourself, but you hadn’t shown any inclination towards it except for your small talk with JJ.

You had sighed, hiding your face in your hands. He had thought it was sorrow, but realized quickly from your irritation with JJ that you had done it out of embarrassment. You didn’t like admitting your own weaknesses, and he realized that, unbeknownst to you, you had shown him how to get to you.

Spencer was the most unassuming of the group. He knew he would have the most leverage with you. Your guard would be down, because you likely didn’t perceive him as a threat like everyone else. You two were very close in age as well; you would relate to him the most. So with a new file under his arm and his team watching from across the glass, Spencer entered your interrogation room as unassumingly as possible. He had to downplay the aces he held in his hand.

You looked up at him as he entered, and he noticed the dark circles under your eyes. Good. The more tired and irritated you were, the more likely you would be to slip up. You sat up straight in your chair when he entered, still relaxed but not as much as you had been before. He sat down across from you, placing his files in front of himself and clearing his throat.

“Hello,” he said coolly.

“Hello,” you answered back.

“I thought,” he started, “that we could have a little chat about everything going on. Is that okay?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Ah, you had caught on to him quickly. He had tried to establish a false sense of autonomy for you; if you had said yes, you were willingly choosing to open up. But acknowledging that you had no real say in the matter leveled the playing field. You knew exactly what game he was trying to play with you. He would have to readjust accordingly.

“No, I suppose not,” he replied quietly. He stared at you silently then, waiting to see if you would respond. But all you did was stare back, your eyes meeting his in a solid gaze. You were trying to tell him you weren’t scared, but your fidgeting hands gave you away.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked gently. Your eyebrows raised slightly in surprise at him.

“I thought I didn’t have a choice.”

“There are a lot of options to choose from. This could be an opportunity to plead your case if you’d like.”

Your face turned into a frown almost immediately.

“I wouldn’t be here if you thought I was innocent. Pleading my case is useless at best.”

“That’s understandable. If you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you invoked any of your Miranda rights?”

“You’re going to find what you want to find,” you said, sighing in what sounded like defeat. “Presence of an attorney wouldn’t make much of a difference anyways.”

Spencer felt almost… bad for you. You seemed so resigned that he had to remind himself that you actually _were_ guilty of something. He just hadn’t proven it yet. He had tried to get you to let your guard down, but it obviously wasn’t going to happen. He started in on the interrogation, puling out some older photos of you and placing them on the table so that you could look at them.

“Who is this girl?” he asked. This was a test of you own self-perception, a way to see what kind of illness, if any, you were hiding. You barely looked at them before making eye contact with him again, confusion on your face.

“That’s me,” you replied. Your voice sounded almost unsure, which is exactly what Spencer wanted to capitalize off of.

“Is it really?” he asked, pulling on of them around so he could look at it more closely. “I’ve never seen you smile like that. Look again.”

He watched your reaction closely. You refused his command to look again, purposely staring forward as if in spite. One of your eyebrows twitched and he watched as you tensed and then immediately forced yourself to relax in your chair. He was getting somewhere.

“You don’t have to make fun of the fact that I’m not happy anymore.”

“Not _as_ happy? Or not happy at all?”

Your lips pursed of your own accord, most likely in aggravation to his observation, but you refused to answer.

“I think one could argue that girls like this-”

He tapped the picture in front of him, one of you laughing with your eyes closed.

“-are nothing like you. You may have the same face, but this is not you.”

“Are you the same person you were when you were younger?” you asked pointedly.

“Yes and no. I still see parts of my younger self in my personality today. But this girl, she isn’t even alive anymore.”

You just stared at him expressionlessly from across the table, and he leaned forward to get into your personal space, make you even more uncomfortable than you already were. 

“I can see it in your eyes,” he said, his voice lowered. This his surprise, you leaned forward, your face now inches away from his. He could smell the remnants of your perfume from the day before, and he resisted the urge to breathe in the beautiful scent, opting to stare straight into your eyes instead.

“Bullshit,” you said, slowly lowering yourself back into your chair. Spencer leaned back as well, still not breaking eye contact with you. The air was simply electric, and he almost hated when he had to turn away to bring his phone out of his pocket.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Listen to this, then, and tell me that you would do this.”

He played the recording, watching every miniscule reaction in your face and body.

“I’m sorry,” your voice said in the recording. “I know I shouldn’t call anymore, I know you won’t answer. It’s just…” 

He played your old voicemail recordings, one by one, waiting for you to snap. Your vision had become unfocused, and you stared down at the table with your hands in your lap. He was sure if he could see them that they would be balled into fists. And so it went. Spencer forced himself to ignore the anguish in your recorded voice, trying his best to tune out the noise and put his entire attention towards you. It took almost two dozen messages for you to break.

“Please stop,” you said timidly, refusing to look at him.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

You looked up at him. He thought he detected the smallest bit of tears in your eyes.

“Stop.”

Your voice choked slightly, and Spencer reached over to turn the recording off. You wiped very quickly at your face, and he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of pride in seeing how vulnerable he could make you without even saying a word. The room devolved into silence, and you refused to look at him even as he started to talk to you.

“Is this the-”

“Shut up.”

He paused, the anger in your voice apparent. You had gotten yourself under control quickly, the tears gone from your eyes almost as quickly as they had appeared. But this wasn’t uncommon; rather than revel in your own sadness, you had quickly turned it into a silent rage. The only thing that gave you away was your voice.

“Only one of us has the authority to make that call,” he replied smoothly.

“And you’re assuming it’s the genius FBI agent, huh?”

Spencer froze. He wracked his brain for a moment, his gaze never wavering from your face.

“I never told you I was a genius,” he said finally.

“I know,” you replied flippantly.

In that moment, it clicked. You had known the entire time. They had thought it was some sick accident that your laptop had gotten completely destroyed, but it was clear now that you had done it on purpose. You had been waiting for them. It was such a manipulative thing to do, to force yourself into such a vulnerable position like that, because you knew it would immediately strike embarrassment and empathy onto the team rather than any sort of suspicion. 

You knew who they were before they had even thought about you. How much did you know? And the slight edge in your voice, the flash of arrogance behind your eyes… You hadn’t slipped up just now. You had said that on purpose to tease him once again. 

And he had felt _sorry_ for you.

Spencer was overwhelmed with disgust and fury. Yet again, he had been manipulated by you and your stupid tears, your tragic past clouding his present judgement.

“How did you know that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice in check.

“I don’t-”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

Spencer slammed his palm on the table and you jumped in your seat, looking from his hand to his face in shock. Spencer didn’t even care. He was consumed in his own rage because of his own foolishness. He had let you do this to him, and for what?

“Answer me,” he demanded. He watched the shock on your face quickly dissolve into a placid mask of indifference.

“I thought I had the right to remain silent,” you replied softly, the faintest smirk playing on your lips.

You were using his own words against him.

Spencer almost never lost anything. He was usually able to use his mind to win, all it took was a little extra thought. But you were winning right now, and he absolutely hated you for it. This was the one game he couldn’t lose, the one thing that mattered the most, and you were kicking his ass without even trying. You were running fucking circles around him and his team without even breaking a sweat, and you were having fun doing it. 

You broke the heavy silence, a hint of laughter behind your next words.

“What’s wrong?”

You were mocking him, and for some reason Spencer couldn’t take it. He pointed at you, his voice laced with anger.

“You know exactly what you did, you-”

It was your eyebrows that gave it away. They raised ever so slightly as your eyes flicked to his hand and then back up to his face. He had attributed your fidgeting to your discomfort with the situation. Your movements were so imperceptible that he almost didn’t catch them at all. 

Spencer was mortified. He stood up, leaning into your face so closely that he could smell your perfume again, so close that you backed away from him purely out of instinct. He lowered his voice so that only you would hear, his lips just inches from your own.

“You’re _disgusting.”_

You opened your mouth and closed it quickly, a small flush working its way over your cheeks as Spencer ripped himself away from you, grabbing his files and storming out without another word. He threw the papers in his bag, rushing quickly to the bathroom. He knew his team would want to speak to him about what had happened in there, breaking down every minute detail including how he had lost his temper. But the positioning of the room meant that his body had been in the way, and even the cameras wouldn’t have picked up your micro-expressions or his whispered words to you. There was no way that they would know what you were thinking.

There was no way that he would _ever_ let them know what just happened. 

You were getting off to his anger. What’s worse was that the thought of you thinking of him like that made Spencer’s jeans feel a little bit tighter, and he had to adjust himself in the bathroom stall just so that he could appear normal. He had called you disgusting and you _loved_ it, which made the whole situation feel even filthier because he had enjoyed it too.

He’d worked for the BAU for almost ten years and had never experienced a reaction like this. He had never felt this way before. He wasn’t conflicted per se; he knew you were a special type of evil. But the strange duality of your nature drew him in because he saw it mirrored in his own personality as well. 

There was a rage in you that threatened to overtake you at any moment. Yet you held it at bay with the sick promise of exacting revenge when you could, coldly calculating every step in your head from the moment you woke up in the morning to the moment you went to sleep at night. You hid it well, using kindness and optimism to mask the dark, ugly things inside.

Spencer’s job required him to get into the heads of the worst of the worst, the scum of the earth, people so vile that he hesitated to even call them human. So what did it mean when he looked into the eyes of a killer only to see himself staring back?


	8. Blame Game

You shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did. But there was something satisfying about watching the doctor’s gears click in his head, watching as his body almost started to vibrate with the rage he was trying to contain within himself. If you weren’t mistaken, you were pretty sure you saw the outline of a faint boner in his beautifully pressed pants after he had yelled at you.

You didn’t usually like it when people yelled. But you weren’t afraid of Spencer, not one bit, and you would have laughed at how upset he had gotten if it hadn’t been about you. More specifically, the fact that his aggression turned you on more than you cared to admit. That was something new for you. You were a bit worried about that; would he tell his team? Would they make fun of you? You couldn’t take that embarrassment. Considering his reaction though, you didn’t think he would be able to bear it either.

God, his hands were fantastic. You wondered idly how it would feel to hold them in your own hands. Or what they’d feel like around your throat. 

You knew your fixation on the doctor wasn’t healthy by any means. He knew all the right words to get into your head, and you almost felt compelled to tell him how you truly felt. It was dangerous to be around him, because for some reason all you wanted to do was be near him. It didn’t matter if he was yelling at you or tormenting you or just staring at you, there was this kind of environmental shift that settled over you any time he was around. Like the feeling of the last puzzle piece finally fitting into its place.

You were sure he hated you. Almost positive. But you didn’t care, because the small flashes of pity behind his eyes, the gentle looks he gave you before you set him off over and over again made everything worth it. There was nothing more intoxicating than having his undivided attention. The smell of peppermint soap that washed over you every time he got close made you want to close your eyes and savor the moment. You would drown yourself in his bathtub if it meant that the last thing you could smell would be him.

Your life was pretty much over anyways.

You wished they had a clock in the interrogation room. You weren’t sure what time it was but you were starting to get hungry. You were definitely bored, but you spent a lot of your time daydreaming about your team, about what they were thinking about, what they were going to do next, who they would send in to see you. You missed them. 

Finally, the door opened again and David stepped in. To your surprise, Spencer followed in behind him, opting to lean against the wall behind David’s chair. The doctor made fleeting eye contact with you, his face set to a cool indifference, before his gaze became fixed on the wall behind you. You chose to stare at David instead, waiting for him to start whatever he was going to do.

“How’s it going?” David asked.

“About as well as it can be. A little hungry, honestly.”

David immediately turned to Spencer.

“Could you grab her something, please?” He turned back to you. “We don’t have many options, do you want anything specific from the vending machine? Chips, cookies, soda, water?”

Oh, he was the “nice guy” out of the team. Okay. You made eye contact with Spencer, who seemed as if he was trying to keep some form of disgust off of his face.

“Could you get me a soda please? And some chips? I don’t really mind what kind, I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

You _were_ an inconvenience though, and everyone knew it. But David had asked and Spencer was bound to comply, so Spencer stalked off without another work to grab you whatever it is he deemed fit. As soon as he was gone, you looked over at David again.

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” you said delicately.

“Dr. Reid can be a bit… temperamental at times.”

You nodded understandingly. 

“How are you doing today, Agent Rossi? I’m sorry I forgot to ask earlier.”

He raised his eyebrows a little at you before settling a little bit more into his chair.

“I’m doing well,” he replied. “To be honest, I’m a little confused as to why you’re sitting in front of me today.”

You gave out a dark half-chuckle.

“Me, too.”

“We’re going to start a bit further back. Tell me about your family.”

“Agent Rossi, with all due respect, if I wanted a therapy session, I would have asked for one.”

“You can call me David,” he replied.

“Okay, David. I understand why you want to do this, but I don’t think it’s very rele-”

The door opened, and you stopped mid-sentence as Spencer strode in, depositing a Coke and a bag of plain potato chips in front of you without a word. Interesting that he would choose the safest options rather than purposefully give you food that you wouldn’t want to eat. You smiled gratefully up at him.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You truly were thankful; you weren’t trying to be facetious or mocking. He nodded at you, and for a flicker of a moment you could have sworn the corners of his mouth were going to turn up into a small smile. He shut it down quickly though, and his face became a mask of apathy once more as he resumed his place behind David, crossing his arms. The sound of you opening up your snacks was deafening in the silent room, and you felt extremely self-conscious about the loud crunching of a chip in your mouth. You paused for a moment after swallowing. 

“Would you guys like any?” you offered, turning the bag around to them so that they could grab something if they wanted. 

“No, we’re okay, but thank you,” David said. 

“Okay.”

They sat there in awkward silence as you continued to eat your little bag of chips. You forced yourself to eat at a steady pace, refusing to look up at them. You would probably blush from embarrassment if you did. When you were done, you flattened the chip bag and started to fold it into a small square. It wasn’t good to have idle hands.

“Are you ready?” David asked.

“Yeah,” you replied, taking another sip of your soda.

“Let’s start with your parents.”

You bit back a sigh. They just weren’t going to drop it.

“Okay.”

“What was your father like?”

You shrugged.

“Absent. He ran off when we were kids. I didn’t really know him and I don’t really have the desire to at this point.”

“Why not? It must get lonely sometimes, no? You don’t have any other family left.”

“What’s the point of pursuing a relationship with someone who wants nothing to do with you?”

You had learned that the hard way. It was so frustrating, and it truly was lonely, but you’d rather be content by yourself than unhappy with somebody else. Although perhaps you hadn’t quite learned that lesson, because it was taking everything you could not to glance over at Spencer standing behind David.

“That’s a fair point. What was life like at home with your mother and sister?”

“We weren’t rich or anything, but we got by. Neither of them were perfect by any means, but I still love them.”

“You miss them?”

You wanted so badly to give him a snarky reply, but instead just nodded, keeping your face blank. 

“Yes, I do.”

You didn’t want to talk about this, and he knew that, but he was pressuring you anyways. Boredom was a better option compared to this.

“What about Stephen?”

“Excuse me?”

“You see, I’m just a little bit confused that your relationship with him went as far as it did. You saw your mother live through an abusive relationship. Why did you stay with him for so long when you had seen what was happening to her?”

You looked over at Spencer as if that was going to save you, and then back at David. You had to keep your cool, you reminded yourself. You couldn’t lose it right now. 

“I didn’t know about Robert until it was too late,” you said finally. “It had happened after I broke off my engagement, and I wasn’t living at home. I had no idea.”

Spencer spoke up from the back.

“Since you had experienced it firsthand, did you not see it reflected in your mother’s behavior, then?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t home.”

“You don’t have to be around people to notice that something is off,” Spencer replied. “Did you not know, or were you choosing to ignore it?”

The incredulity in your voice was difficult to hide.

“Are you implying that I caused my mother’s death?”

“I was simply asking. You implied the rest. Do you have some sort of guilty conscience about it?”

“Why would I feel guilt for something that I didn’t do?”

“Most people in your situation would have blamed themselves for not seeing it earlier. Especially you, who had lived through it yourself. You would have recognized the signs way before anybody else did, you had the power to intervene but didn’t. Some people could argue that you let it happen on purpose.”

That was enough. If Spencer was going to play hardball, you were more than happy to participate. You looked over at David, keeping your face as nonchalant as possible.

“Agent Rossi, do you have children?”

His face was slightly wary, but he answered anyways.

“Yes.”

“You’re Italian?”

He smiled lightly.

“Yes, I am.”

“And Italians tend to be a little more family-centric, right?”

“Correct.”

“So I bet that your relationship with your parents was pretty good?”

“It was normal by most standards.”

You nodded understandingly, your gaze now fixing on Spencer. That’s exactly why they had brought him in here.

“Doctor, are your parents divorced, dead, or both?”

You ignored the look of surprise on David’s face, reveling in the way Spencer’s brow furrowed, his lips parting just slightly from being taken off guard. He closed his mouth quickly, trying to recover, but he had already given too much away.

“Both?” you asked, trying to keep the mockery out of your voice. “Sorry about that. I can definitely relate, if you ever want to talk about it you can always come to me.”

Watching him clench and unclench his fists was more than enough satisfaction for you. You turned back to David, and after the deafening silence, he began to speak.

“Alright, well-”

“At least I’m not to blame for what happened to my parents,” Spencer interrupted. Both you and David looked at him, and you could tell from David’s face that this was not planned at all.

“So you _were_ implying that it’s my fault.”

“You wouldn’t be killing people if you didn’t think you had some sort of hand in what happened. Is that what you’re trying to accomplish? Some kind of redemption for yourself?”

“I don’t kill people, Doctor.”

“If you didn’t kill people, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think we need to take a moment,” David intervened. But you and Spencer were locked in place, staring at each other so intensely it was almost as if David didn’t even exist at all.

“No, Agent Rossi, let him keep going. I want to hear what he has to say. Go on, Doctor.”

Spencer took a step forward.

“You wouldn’t take actions into your own hands unless you felt responsible. You wouldn’t get so defensive and deflect unless you had something to hide.”

“You just can’t stand that you’re not in control for once,” you spit back. “Mommy issues really did a number on you, huh?”

A flush appeared on Spencer’s cheeks, but that didn’t stop him from firing back at you.

“Were you attracted to Stephen because he was emotionally unavailable? Or just because he hit you? I’m sure that either way you’ve made your father proud.”

“Hey!” you rose from your chair quickly, the metal making a disgusting noise on the tile floor. “How dare you-”

Spencer strode forward, the only thing separating the two of you being the table in the middle of the room, his finger pointed straight at you.

“Don’t you try to tell me-”

“ENOUGH!” Rossi yelled, standing up and situating himself between you and Spencer. The two of you immediately quieted down, the sounds of your raised voices dying in the air. David pointed at you.

“Sit down. And you,” he turned to Spencer. “Go walk it off.”

Spencer shot you a glare before he left, and you could have sworn his hands were shaking with anger.

Good.

-

Spencer’s POV

You were right, and Spencer hated every fucking second of it. He didn’t mean to lose control in there, he really didn’t. But your air of entitlement was revolting. The way you fought for your innocence when you were so blatantly guilty was downright infuriating, only because Spencer knew that he didn’t have enough to prove it. He was starting to become genuinely afraid that you were going to get away with this.

After doing a lap around the floor of the building, Spencer opened the door to the observation room to watch how you reacted to Rossi alone. You were polite, not aggressive at all. You answered his questions respectfully, all signs of your previous instability gone as if they had never existed. 

You had compared yourself to him earlier, and he didn’t like it one bit. He had nothing in common with you.

Except that he did.

He couldn’t escape the truth from settling into his brain. The both of you had similar backgrounds and somewhat similar upbringings, right down to the mommy and daddy issues. Spencer experienced violence and used that to fuel his passion for doing what was right, whereas you experienced violence and used it as an excuse for revenge.

There was a strange thing about your profile that didn’t quite make sense, though. The profile pointed to something more akin to a hitman than someone out for revenge. You had emotional motives for sure, but there was no emotion in your kills, as if you hadn’t even enjoyed them. It was more like a reflex than an actual revelry in the pain and suffering of other beings, which is what they would have expected from you. 

The only person’s suffering you seemed to enjoy was Spencer’s. Why did you care so much about him? Why was he the only person who could seem to get through to you? And why was he so sensitive when it came to you?

Every profiler has that one case, that one unsub that gets under their skin. Spencer had experienced a few disturbing people and cases, but none of them had affected him like this. You had picked up on his family dynamic as if it was a game. Spencer rarely lost his temper, rarely raised his voice, but you drew out the darkness in him with ease.

It was almost like a sixth sense that was developing under his skin. He was aware of you, too aware of the way you held yourself, too aware of the smallest expressions that crossed your eyes or your brow. He wanted to be around you more than he should, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was hell-bent on finding the truth or because he was so fascinated by you. He had known that his words were going to set you off but he did it anyways because he wanted to see what would happen.

His stomach twisted when he realized that he enjoyed seeing you that way. You were pure, uninhibited by the mask you wore. You were absolutely ruthless and cruel, mocking him at every step of the way, and he liked to use that as an excuse to drop his own mask, too. Your pointed attacks gave him the opportunity to release some of his own pent-up rage, and it was freeing to say the least.

Rossi didn’t get anything else from his interrogation with you. The only slight information they had gotten was when Spencer was in the room, and everyone knew it. The team hadn’t spoken about it yet, but he had a decision to make. He could take a step away for his own sanity and let them potentially fail, or become even more emotionally involved than he already was and help them prove your guilt. He ran his fingers through his hair frustratedly, reminded once again that sometimes the right choice isn’t always the easiest one.


	9. Morality

A day and a half went by, almost every hour as boring as the next. They never brought Spencer in again, instead choosing to rotate team members. The Derek and David combination was nice, but you were enjoying the Aaron and Emily combination in front of you right now. Both of them had this darkness in their eyes, a sadness that you recognized as loss. You pitied them. 

They certainly did not pity you.

Questions and accusations were thrown at you one by one, both of them raising their voices at times, bargaining with you, trying everything under the sun to get you to say something, anything. You were smarter than that.

You liked Emily a lot. She was brilliant, you could tell, and so beautiful. She was spunky, and you liked that. Aaron, on the other hand, was sullen. You knew his little outbursts of anger were just ways to rattle you; they weren’t genuine like the doctor’s. He was calculating, watching your every movement like a hawk. He would never slip up like that. After Spencer’s comments and accusations, though, nothing really bothered you too much. How much more psychological damage could they really do to you?

“And your mother would be okay with you killing people?” Emily asked.

“The opinions of the dead have no tangible effect on the living,” you replied, leaning back into your seat. “When will I be allowed to leave?”

Emily gathered her files, shooting you a disapproving look.

“Not anytime soon.”

And with that, you were once again whisked off away to the ugly holding cell you’d been in for the past few days. It was still as horrendous and uncomfortable as you had left it, and you resisted the urge to sigh as the guard slipped you dinner on a tray through the bars behind you. Another ham and cheese, it looked like. Great. 

You had been left alone for awhile; you didn’t think anything of it. It was nighttime and there wasn’t anyone around, so unless they were coming to talk to you there was no reason for them to be there. You were sidled up in the corner on the uncomfortable little cot they had, just staring at the wall and thinking, when you heard a door down the hallway creak open. One of your little team members come to antagonize you again. You wouldn’t even give them the pleasure of your acknowledgment.

They stopped in front of your cell, and something about their stance made you think to look. It was a large man, someone you didn’t recognize. He wasn’t in uniform, wasn’t dressed up nicely. There was something wrong, you could just feel it. He walked up to the bars of your cell wordlessly, and you watched as he reached into his coat. You quickly dived off of the cot before he had a chance to corner you, but the gunshot he got off tore through your left shoulder.

You had a split second to decide what to do. The man had stuck the muzzle of his gun between the bars because they were too close together for him to be able to shoot you from a distance. You rushed at him from the side, using one hand to knock his gun back through the bars while your other hand reached through the bars on the other side to grab it. He had only had one hand on the gun; he probably hadn’t expected you to fight back.

He fumbled the gun and stumbled backwards, and that gave you enough time to flip the weapon around in your hands, firing off three shots. Two in the chest, and one in the head for good measure. 

He slumped to the ground and you waited a moment, just to make sure he was dead. After his chest stopped moving, you crouched down to set the gun on the concrete and slid it over next to his body. The last thing you needed was to get shot again because you were holding a gun that wasn’t even yours.

You wondered where everyone was while this happened. There had been a silencer on the muzzle, so you knew nobody had heard anything. The adrenaline was starting to fade fast, and your shoulder was starting to _really_ hurt, the blood quickly dripping down your arm and torso. It felt kind of like… lukewarm coffee. You knew you should put your other hand to your shoulder, stop the bleeding, but judging from the blood splatter on the wall behind you, it wouldn’t make a difference. Blood would just come out the other end anyways.

It looked like the bullet had torn through your shoulder completely, leaving an actual hole in your body. Great. You wondered if you would pass out from the pain or the blood loss first. It was looking like the blood loss. You sat down on the ground, leaning your head back against the wall of the small cell. Damn, you were starting to get dizzy. As you looked at the dead body across from you, the resemblance was hard to miss. One of your little mafia friends had sent someone for you. You heard a door open and running feet. The cavalry was here.

Guns drawn, they ran up, kicking the gun away from the man and checking his pulse. He had an obvious bullet wound in his skull. Come on now. Yet they stood outside your cell, fumbling for the keys. You almost laughed. Derek rushed in first, his hands prodding at your shoulder, asking you a million questions at once. You didn’t even bother answering. You were going to pass out soon anyways. You locked eyes with Aaron, smirking slightly at the frown on his face, his cold and still demeanor. No matter what kind of trouble you were in, no matter what you had done, he was going to have to protect you now whether he liked it or not. Life or death.

Black spots swam before your vision, and you quickly slipped into unconsciousness.

-

Spencer’s POV

A slip in security. How had anybody let that fucking happen?

Spencer was on babysitting duty, sitting next to you as you lay in your hospital bed. He had already studied the geographical profile multiple times so there was nothing new to find on that front, and it had already been established that you had a sort of soft spot for him. It was best to keep you close to him just in case you decided to divulge any more information.

Spencer felt isolated. He felt like he was holding some big secret, something he couldn’t share with anyone else. Penelope had started to ask him what was wrong almost every time she saw him. Hotch had even taken him aside before this to make sure Spencer was up to being alone with you. Spencer had been able to play off the first outburst as part of his plan, but he couldn’t hide the second one at all. Even worse, he knew that the team had been discussing him behind his back any time that he wasn’t there, talking about his strange sensitivity to you and how you seemed to react more around him. They didn’t understand it, and Spencer had to sit and pretend like he didn’t know the answer. 

You were going to be fine, although the amount of blood you lost was going to keep you unconscious for a little bit. Spencer occupied himself with a book, waiting until you woke up to pay more attention to you. Hours went by before accelerated beeping from your heart monitor startled him into looking over at you. Surprisingly, you weren’t awake. He saw that you were sweating slightly, and he could make out the sudden tension in your body. You were having some sort of nightmare.

Should he wake you up? His first thought was yes, that was the right thing to do. But his second thought was that maybe in your fragile state, either while asleep or immediately after waking up, you would say something incriminating.

As much as he hated to admit it, Spencer almost enjoyed watching you struggle like this. You were a disgusting, soulless thing. Yet, on the other side of the coin, had you not been driven to become this? You were a victim of your environment and circumstance, and the role of murderer had been thrust upon you long before you had decided to actively choose violence. It was a way that you gave yourself power in a world that you felt had disenfranchised you. It was an escape, a way to avenge your own trauma and heartbreak. And for that, Spencer pitied you.

He had waited too long to wake you up. Your eyes flew open with a sharp inhale, causing Spencer to refocus on your face. Your eyes darted around the room in panic, finally settling on his own. You looked back at him, your chest still heaving slightly. Your cardiac monitor started to stabilize fairly quickly, and Spencer watched as you looked down at yourself, assessing the damage and tugging lightly on the wrist that was cuffed to the arm on the bed. He noticed you were holding back a grimace of pain when you moved your damaged shoulder, and he almost felt bad for you.

Almost.

He wasn’t going to be the first one to say anything. But the continued prolonged silence on your end meant you weren’t going to speak either. As twisted as it was, he knew that he needed to question you quickly, before you regained your full consciousness. It was easier to get into your head the more vulnerable you were.

“What were you dreaming about?” he finally asked. You looked over at him again, and he could see the true fatigue you held. Though your face was placid, it was not the same kind of peace you had while you were sleeping. 

“Dying,” you answered softly.

“You died?”

“Yeah. But… I came back.”

“How?”

“You.”

Spencer resisted the urge to lean forward in his chair, his heart stuttering slightly. It was as if any small movement could break the spell he seemed to have over you. You were being the most candid you had ever been since the two of you had met. He couldn’t mistake the sound of longing in your voice, as if you were waiting for him to comfort you. He had to remind himself that you didn’t deserve that.

“How did I do it?”

“I don’t know. You just… did.”

You looked away from him, and Spencer could feel the atmosphere shift as you began to shut yourself down. He watched as you rearranged your face and body language, and it became clear that you weren’t going to look at him again, as if you were ashamed of yourself for speaking in the first place.

Dreams of death were not uncommon. Spencer wracked his brain for the different meanings. In your case, it seemed that it could be a symbol of you disconnecting yourself from your own emotions in the first place. But resurrection? Spencer couldn’t recall ever seeing anything about it. It was definitely something to look up later. 

As much as he tried, he couldn’t ignore the significance of his presence in your dreams. It was no secret that you were under immense pressure, of course you would dream about your current predicament in different ways. But the connection of two people like that, raising you from the dead… it almost mirrored a sort of religious devotion.

“Why did I bring you back?” Spencer asked. Your eyes were closed, as if you were trying to go back to sleep. Your tense shoulders said otherwise.

“I wouldn’t know,” you quipped. He knew his attempt would be fruitless, but he had tried.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Do you need any more painkillers or-”

“Can you just let me go back to sleep?”

Spencer resisted the urge to sigh. At least he knew you weren’t permanently damaged.

“Of course,” he replied softly.

Now that you were awake, the distraction of his book was gone. Almost immediately, the camera footage of you with a gun was stuck on a loop in his brain. The way you had almost expertly wrapped your fingers around the grip and fired, how smoothly you had moved to disarm the man despite the fact that a bullet had ripped through your shoulder just moments before. They hadn’t found a gun anywhere in your personal belongings, and they had gone over all of your transaction history, going back years. Where did you learn to shoot like that?

That’s not what scared Spencer the most, though. He was fixated on the fear that he felt standing in front of your cell, watching your eyelids flutter shut as you slipped into unconsciousness. It should have been a relief. He should have wanted you to die, because you very well may just get away with murder. Instead, he was struck with the realization that he didn’t want to lose you.

Wrong.

It was wrong. It was easier when you were asleep; he didn’t have to look at you, didn’t have to be aware of you. When you weren’t there, he didn’t have to think about your smile or your pain, he didn’t have to think about the way your perfume intoxicated him, he didn’t have to think about how every second with you slipped by faster and faster and that he didn’t want that time to end. His own acknowledgement of his strange attraction to you made his stomach knot up, his body becoming tenser by the second. He didn’t want to be around you anymore. He couldn’t be around you anymore.

He stood up, walking quickly to the bathroom connected to your room and closing the door behind him. He braced his forearms on the edge of the sink as he turned the knob for cold water, bending down and splashing some of it on his face. The sound of the rushing faucet helped calm him, and he focused on breathing deeply and evenly, trying to clear his mind from the overwhelming thoughts that crowded it. Eventually, he was calm. He dried his face off, composing himself before going back out to sit next to you.

He could tell that you were faking sleep. You breathing was too uneven, your body too fidgety. He pretended not to notice. He couldn’t deal with you right now. Another fight would be too much, and it already took so much out of him just to analyze every single little thing you said or did. He was so consumed by his own inner turmoil that he lost track of time completely. He hadn’t even noticed you had turned to look at him until your voice brought him out of his reverie.

“Dr. Reid?”

His eyes snapped to your face, the hesitance in your voice attracting his full attention.

“I, um…” you started. “I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier about your parents. That was a low blow, and it wasn’t fair to you. I know how it feels to go through that, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I won’t say that to you again.”

Spencer paused, absolutely dumbfounded. You were apologizing? After getting shot due to the Bureau’s carelessness, even though he had provoked you in the first place, yelled at you, and even laid a hand on you, you were saying sorry? 

He believed you. He hated himself for it, too. You were so genuine, the awkwardness of this moment too disjointed to be manufactured. There were no indicators at all that you were lying. Spencer wanted to apologize. He had been just as cruel as you had been, and justified it with the excuse that you were a brutal murderer.

Or at least that’s what he said to himself. The evidence was all circumstantial. All of it. Nobody had identified you, no cameras had picked you up, no DNA had been left behind, your credit card purchases and phone records came out clean, everything checked out. He wished he could delude himself into thinking that you weren’t so bad. But the small hints that you had dropped, your defensiveness, your profile… too much of it matched.

He realized he had been silent for too long.

“Thank you for apologizing,” he replied finally. He wasn’t going to say it was okay, because it wasn’t. Saying sorry didn’t make up for hurt feelings or anything else. You relaxed slightly, finally looking away from him to stare off into space somewhere else in the room. It seemed as though you didn’t expect anything else from him. Did you think you had deserved the way he had treated you?

It was intriguing to see how much you seemed to care about how he felt. Spencer wondered if you actually cared about him as a person, or if you were only saying sorry to feel better about what you had done. You hadn’t shown any sort of remorse at all up to this point. Yet again, he felt conflicted about your behavior. You had to have some sort of tell to give you away. Everybody does. But he hadn’t caught you in an outright lie, yet. Or at least he hadn’t been paying attention when he did. 

“Doctor?”

There was something so endearing about the way you said that. Spencer had to quickly dispel that thought from his mind, looking back at you with a blank face.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever have dreams?”

“Everyone has dreams.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes exaggeratedly, and Spencer resisted the urge to chuckle at your dramatics.

“Do you ever remember your dreams?” you asked.

“Sometimes.”

“What do you dream about?”

“I think… that’s a little too personal,” Spencer replied. The human brain can’t process all of the information that it gathers during the day while someone is active. Dreams are simply the brain’s way of processing a person’s thoughts and feelings that they may not have realized while they were awake. Whether you knew that or not, Spencer didn’t want to give you any sort of ammunition against him.

“Not even one dream?”

“No.”

“I told you mine, it’s only fair that you tell me yours.”

“An eye for an eye would make the world blind.”

“Ugh, you’re so pretentious,” you groaned.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Spencer had to remind himself that he wasn’t going to let you get under his skin. No bickering, no insults. He wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction.

“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t.”

“Oh, do you want me to say it again? I can say it louder this time if you want.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m happy to help. I mean we’re at the hospital, we can get your ears checked if you want.”

You were grinning at him, and the quick, playful banter slipped off of Spencer’s tongue without a second thought.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m a doctor. I know how to adjust the morphine you’re attached to over there.”

Your face fell.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I most definitely would.”

“You’re not even that kind of doctor.”

“They don’t know that.”

“Isn’t it against the doctor oath or something? Do no harm?”

“I mean if we think about it, harm is being prevented to me because in that case, I don’t have to listen to you harass me. But you also said it yourself, I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“No, but you’ve got morals.”

“And you don’t?” he retorted playfully.

You hesitated.

The light mood in the room quickly fell to one of seriousness. Your lips parted as if you were going to reply, but you decided against it. You opted to look away from him instead, and Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his chair in the growing silence. He looked down at the book in his hands, and even as he began to read again, he couldn’t take his mind off of you.


	10. Too Close

You had died in your dream, darkness surrounding you. It was peaceful. There was a bliss in not having to do anything but just exist in this moment. No performative bullshit, no overthinking or analyzing. Just being.

And then you were conscious, disoriented and lying on the floor of some unfamiliar room. Spencer was there, dragging you up off of the floor and into his arms.

“You’re back,” he had murmured into your ear. 

“Why?” you protested in anger, ripping yourself away from him. “Why didn’t you let me die?”

His face fell, his arms still reaching out for you as you scrambled away.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he replied simply.

You remember being furious at him, at the world. You had been _happy._ Why was everyone so intent on ruining it for you? You ran, away from him, away from everyone and everything. You were in an office building, a maze of conference rooms and bathrooms and offices. Blank walls, no windows, no decorations. Just darkness. 

And then you ran into _him._

Anthony Valassino, covered in blood. 

You started awake, choking back a gasp as you looked around the unfamiliar room. Your eyes landed on Spencer, and even through the pain in your shoulder you felt yourself begin to settle down with relief. He was here. He wouldn’t let you get hurt.

And you, like a child, had told him what you had seen. Or at least part of it. He was entranced, and you realized you shouldn’t be talking to him. Not about this. You shut down almost immediately, and you saw that he did the same to you as he went to the bathroom. You heard the water start to run almost immediately.

What was he doing? Was he calling someone on the phone so you wouldn’t hear? It didn’t matter. You were cuffed to the bed; it’s not like you were going anywhere. You pretended to be asleep just so that you could avoid talking to him.

He was getting too close. 

You thought about the last words you had said to him before today. You had been unnecessarily cruel, and for what? He was right in attacking you. In his eyes, you didn’t deserve the little bit of humanity you had been offered, and you agreed with him. At what point could you separate yourself from the people you were killing?

The answer is that you couldn’t.

You were still a murderer. You were still inherently bad. Even if you were doing things for the right reasons, it didn’t make what you were doing okay. So you apologized to Spencer, because for some silly reason you wanted to prove that you still had some bit of good left inside of you. He didn’t deserve to be treated badly when he was rightfully doing his job. He had accepted your apology reluctantly, and it made you feel a bit better to know that he might not think you were as awful as you were. 

In the silence that followed, you thought about your dreams, your nightmares. Did the Doctor dream at all? You wondered what danced behind his eyes as he slept. Perhaps it was some kind of math or science thing he was working on. Maybe family or friends. Or maybe he saw you, and people like you, and the destruction that you left in your wake. He admitted to dreaming but refused to elaborate, which made it all the more interesting. What was he hiding?

You appreciated his sharp tongue and quick wit when he bantered with you, the way his lips quirked up when he was going to say something he thought was funny. He wasn’t trying to coerce you or get information; you were having fun with him and he was playing along. He made you feel special.

“No, but you’ve got morals,” you had said.

“And you don’t?” he replied cheekily.

You were too caught off guard to answer his question, and you could tell by the look on his face that he knew the fun moment was over. The weight of your situation crept into your mind again, and you looked away from his pretty face into some random corner of the room to stop yourself from revealing anything else about yourself.

You heard him shuffle around in his chair, and the room fell silent once again. It was still dark outside from what you could tell. Probably late at night or early in the morning. You resisted the urge to sigh, bundling your blankets around yourself and sinking further into your mattress. Surprisingly, sleep overtook you quickly.

When you woke up again, there was a nurse in the room with the two of you. She was short, her dark skin contrasting with the light blue scrubs she was wearing. You took a moment to analyze the situation. It had to be morning from the light that was peeking through the blinds. Spencer seemed to be wearing a different outfit than he had been a few hours ago, and he had put his glasses on. Had he even slept? The dark circles under his eyes made you think not. The nurse was speaking in hushed tones to Spencer, immediately stopping when she realized you were awake.

“Good morning,” she said, giving you a half-smile.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Um… fine.”

“That’s good,” she said. “My name is Aya. Would you be up to answering a few questions for me?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay, good. Do you mind excusing us, Doctor?”

“I’ll stay.”

Aya turned to Spencer, a confused look on her face.

“I’m sorry, sir. We really recommend that this is done in private.”

“Anything she has to say, she can say in front of me.”

“As per HIPAA, I can’t allow you to be in here without her consent,” Aya replied firmly.

“You can go,” you said, shooting him a look. The last thing he needed to do was cause problems with the nice nurse. Spencer only straightened himself in his chair, pushing his glasses up further onto his nose.

“Actually, she’s the suspect of a federal investigation. The FBI doesn’t need her consent to access any of her past or current medical records.”

Know-it-all. Aya pursed her lips before turning to look back at you apologetically. She turned to the laptop that she had brought into the room on a cart, clicking through a few things before looking over at you.

“Okay. Name and date of birth?”

Spencer piped up behind you, giving the answer before you could even open your mouth. You pretended he hadn’t spoken, looking to Aya for your next question.

“Height and weight?”

Spencer answered yet again, and you shot him a look of annoyance. How did he even know that?

“Can I at least answer my own questions, _Doctor?”_

“Alright,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Any history of cancer in your family? Diabetes?”

The list went on, and you went through everything as quickly as you could. It was difficult to keep a straight face when Spencer was staring intently at you the whole time. You pretended to ignore him and his stupid fucking glasses.

“And when was your last menstrual cycle?”

“I have an IUD, I don’t usually get my period.”

“Oh, okay. So you’re sexually active?”

“No,” you replied. “I’m not.”

“Not at all? This includes intercourse with women as well.”

“Yes, I know,” you said.

“Okay, so about how long has it been since you were sexually active?”

You felt a blush start to creep into your face. It was embarrassing enough to talk about this alone with a nurse. But with Spencer in the room?

“I’m honestly not quite sure,” you replied. It was the truth. When was the last time somebody had actually touched you? You were perfectly content with yourself and the few toys you had stashed in your room; you didn’t need much else.

“Do you think you could ballpark it for me? Six, eight, twelve months?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh,” Aya replied awkwardly, typing something into the computer. “Okay, so…”

On and on it went until she was thankfully done. And then she was gone, and you and Spencer were alone again. Before he had a chance to comment about your discussion with Aya, you were filling the silence.

“Can we go get some breakfast?”

“They’ll bring it to you later.”

“Hospital food is gross.”

He just looked at you blankly, so you kept talking. 

“I’m already fatally wounded, you’re going to make me suffer through disgusting food, too?”

The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to laugh at your dramatics, but the rest of his face stayed serious.

“You’ll live,” he replied.

“Barely. Can we at least get good coffee or something?”

“You’ll get the bad hospital coffee just like everyone else.”

“I thought I was special.”

He shot you a disapproving look.

“That’s not something to be proud of.”

“You’re a Special Agent, aren’t you?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Special agents are made for special criminals. Not that I’m a criminal or anything, but since you seem to think I’m special we might as well go all out, huh?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t have to be Starbucks, you can get me something cheap from around the corner. I’m pretty low-maintenance.”

“You’re pretty chipper for someone who just got shot.”

You shrugged, trying not to wince at the pain in your shoulder.

“The lighting is better in here,” you replied. 

He raised his eyebrows at you questioningly but you held his gaze firmly, trying not to smile at the somewhat confused expression on his face.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” he said finally.

“I’m not. The lighting in Quantico sucks. There’s not enough windows, and fluorescent overhead lighting is just the worst.”

Spencer bit his lip, and his facial expression as he looked you up and down paired with those glasses had you distracted. Before you could say anything else, he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I have a proposition for you,” he stated.

“Go for it.”

“I will get you whatever fancy coffee you want.”

“Okay.”

“You will tell me how you learned to shoot a gun the way that you did yesterday.”

“Deal.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows.

“That’s all I had to do? Bribe you with a coffee?”

“Oh, you’re not just getting me a coffee. You’re getting me a full breakfast, and a good one.”

“It’s really that easy?”

“Are you going to keep questioning me until I change my mind, or are you going to get me food?”

He pulled out his phone, dialing a number before standing up and starting to walk out of the room. He looked back at you.

“Stay right there,” he commanded.

“Oh yeah, very funny.” 

You only had a second to catch a glimpse of the grin on his face as he stepped outside the door.

-

“Alright,” Spencer said after you had taken your first bite of breakfast potatoes. “It’s your turn.”

You swallowed your food, wiping at your mouth with a napkin before you spoke.

“I’m surprised you trusted me enough to do this,” you remarked.

“Are you going to make me regret it?”

The tone of his voice prompted you to look over at him. He was nursing a coffee in his hand, his long fingers wrapped around the small paper cup.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“But?”

“Part of me wants to see what would happen if I said no.”

Spencer pursed his lips, his eyes boring into yours intensely.

“I think,” he started slowly, “that it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

“Or?”

All of your previous conversations had been around other people or monitored by someone else. But here in this hospital room, it was just the two of you. There was nobody to witness what was going to happen. 

There was nobody to intervene if something went wrong.

“Or what?”

“What consequences would I face for my actions, Doctor?”

You set your fork down, your full attention on him as he mulled over your question. As if in sync, he set his coffee down on the table next to your bed.

“That depends. How many boundaries are you willing to push?”

“However many it takes for you to break the rules.”

Spencer frowned.

“You think I would break rules for you?”

You smirked back at him.

“I know you would.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Why? Do you feel threatened?”

His silence prompted you to turn back to your food triumphantly. You hadn’t even gotten to grab your fork before Spencer was standing, stepping in to grab your wrist quickly. You jumped at his rough touch. Your other wrist was still cuffed to the side of the bed; there was nothing else you could do but look up at him in surprise. You stared into each other’s eyes in silence. 

Having him so close to you jumpstarted your heart. You started to get nervous. You weren’t going to be able to think straight. Not with his hands on you, not with his face less than a foot away from yours. Finally, you spoke.

“Let me go.”

“What consequences would I face for my actions if I didn’t?”

His mockery of your own words sent chills down your spine. You were temporarily speechless. You decided to throw his words right back at him, instead.

“Are you threatening me, Doctor?” 

“Only one of us is in handcuffs. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t what?” He squeezed your wrist harder, leaning in closer to your face. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Try me, then,” you challenged.

His brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Show me what you’re capable of, Doctor. There’s nobody around. And you’re right, nobody will believe me. It’s the perfect crime.”

Spencer released you immediately, stepping away from you without warning.

“No,” he said definitively. “I’m not stooping down to your level.”

It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself more than he was trying to tell you.

“Yet,” you replied pointedly. His eyes flashed with an unreadable expression. You just smiled at him.

“You’re not stooping down to my level, _yet_.”


End file.
